


No Wise Words Gonna Stop the Bleeding

by lynnearlington



Series: Bad Things verse [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:45:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 82,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynnearlington/pseuds/lynnearlington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her briefcase feels heavy, like it's pulling her arm to the ground, overburdened by the weight of Brittany's case file. Her personal life and work, tangling together in a way that makes her itch, makes her cringe and makes her want to quit her job, steal away with Rachel to a deserted island where none of this crap can touch them. So many secrets. Her life is full of <i>so many</i> secrets. Quinn's side of the story/sequel to They Say Bad Things Happen For a Reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

Rain beats heavily against a window as the loud beep of an alarm cuts through the silence of the bedroom. With a low groan, a long arm reaches across blankets and brown hair and slaps at the clock, one, two, three times, before hitting the mark and silencing the device.

Quinn forces her eyes open, squeezes them shut and then open again as she drops her arm down over Rachel's body and snuggles into her back, pressing her lips into brown hair and sighing.

"Coffee," Rachel mumbles out, pushing back into Quinn and turning halfway over.

"Five more minutes," Quinn argues, hoping to sleep just a little longer before actually having to face reality. She can already hear the wind picking up outside and the speedy patter of rain against their building - a storm's brewing.

"Coffee," Rachel repeats, her voice getting clearer as she turns all the way over and blinks sleepily at Quinn.

The blonde laughs and stretches the sleep out of her whole body, pressing against her wife as the brunette smiles. "You're getting decaf anyway, I don't know why you're so pushy."

An adorable pout appears on Rachel's face. "I want real coffee," she replies, running a hand down Quinn's side under the covers. "With caffeine," she purrs out as her fingers slide back up to trace against Quinn's ribs.

"Well you're getting decaf," Quinn says, grabbing Rachel's hand and stopping its pursuit. "And don't think you can win me over with sex."

Rachel pulls her hand away and sinks back into the bed. "Wouldn't dream of it," she answers with a smirk.

An eye roll and a rustle of sheets later and Quinn's out of bed, pulling on shorts and a tank top as she makes her way to their kitchen. She runs her hands through her hair, pulling out the tangles and sweeps it up off her neck, pulling it back with the rubber band from around her wrist. A loud breath escapes her as she surveys their kitchen, eyes roaming the counters until she spots their French press. Well, actually, their two French presses.

She gets to work, pulling two bags of coffee out of their refrigerator and waiting for the water to warm enough to finish her two pots of coffee - one for her and one for Rachel, since Quinn refuses to drink the decaf despite Rachel’s many protestations against the ‘complete lack of justice and terrible showing of unfairness that is shown by your refusal to show solidarity for me and my plight.’ The newspaper is waiting for her outside their front door when she gets there and she walks back into the kitchen with it, flipping it open and throwing it down on the counter, perusing the headlines absently while she waits for the coffee to brew.

Footsteps pad towards her from the hallway and she turns to see Rachel, dressed in one of Quinn’s dress shirts and looking as beautiful as ever, if not a little sleepy. Her wife stumbles over and bumps into Quinn's side, leaning heavily on her.

Quinn chuckles and rubs a hand up under the shirt and over Rachel's bare back, kissing the top of her head and counting the seconds silently until their coffee is done. It's quiet in the kitchen, with Rachel snuggled up warmly against her side as the smell of coffee starts to make its way to Quinn's nose. She watches the rain fall down outside through their window, where it fall in torrents on building after building, watches the cars buzz down the street below them and the hazy picture of black umbrellas making their way down the sidewalks.

The quiet is deceiving. Quinn knows this better than almost anyone. She knows it because out there, sometime last night, someone killed someone, someone's child was kidnapped, someone bought drugs on a street corner. Their pictures, their lives, their stories. They'll be on her desk in files by the time she gets there. The city is chaos and her job is bringing it to order. Once she steps outside the door, the quiet ends and the noise begins.

She's startled out of her thoughts by Rachel turning her head up and resting her chin on Quinn's collarbone. "Coffee's ready," her wife whispers upward.

Quinn smiles and presses a kiss to Rachel's lips before pulling away, pouring them both coffee and handing one to her wife.

"Busy day today?" Rachel asks as she takes a sip of the liquid and stares at Quinn over the top of the mug. They're still standing close together, Rachel's toes practically on top of Quinn's, and she lets her hand rest on the other girl's hip as she brings her own cup to her lips, her fingers running over the bone there.

"I'll probably be in court all day," Quinn answers after the warm coffee settles in her belly. "Hopefully not."

Rachel hums and sets her coffee on the counter, the black liquid still steaming upwards into the air. Quinn follows suit, putting her mug on the counter next to Rachel's when her wife steps even closer, presses her hips into Quinn's and grins.

"You have to leave soon?" The brunette asks, running her hands up the back of Quinn's tank top.

She does have to leave soon, really soon in fact, but Rachel's eyes are hooded and her palms are warm and she's all too aware of the hips fitted against her own. Their coffee cups on the table are still nearly full and Quinn can hear the big grandfather clock from their living room tick away the seconds as they stand there, the honking outside growing louder as the day begins to start.

She gulps, brushes a hand over the hair on Rachel's forehead and brings their lips together.

"Let's go back to bed," she whispers after pulling apart.

“That’s far away,” Rachel whines, scratching at the skin of Quinn’s lower back with a perfectly manicured nail. “We need a closer bed.”

“You’re the one that wanted a huge place.” Quinn backs them up as she says it, pushing Rachel back with two hands on her hips. Steering is a little difficult because Rachel continues to run her nails over Quinn’s skin even as she walks backwards.

“We were moving in together!” Rachel argues, matching her steps with Quinn’s, their legs brushing against each other as they move out of the kitchen and make their way towards their bedroom. “It didn’t make sense to move into my apartment and yours was much too small for the both of us.”

Sharp laughter shoots out of Quinn as they carefully climb the steps. Rachel moves her hands from Quinn’s back to tangle their fingers together.

“Rachel, it was the penthouse.”

An eyebrow arches on Rachel’s forehead. “Are you saying you don’t like our place?”

“You’re absurd,” Quinn responds, clearing the last step and moving them down the hall.

Rachel stops abruptly and Quinn nearly runs into her. Well, no. She actually _does_ run into her but the door behind Rachel prevents them from falling over. Instead, Rachel’s back is against the door and Quinn’s pressed tightly into her.

It should be hot, and arousing and completely distracting, but somehow her wife went from seductive to indignant from the time it took them to make it upstairs. Maybe Rachel was right. The bed _is_ too far away. Quinn could be halfway to a morning orgasm if she had just given in and thrown Rachel on the kitchen table.

“I am _not_ absurd,” Rachel denies, eyes flashing as she looks up at Quinn.

If Quinn’s honest with herself, getting Rachel mad about something is usually really hot. No, actually. It’s _always_ hot.

So even though she’s still a little confused by the mood swing and that Rachel can go from aroused to angry in seconds, she’s pretty convinced she can snap her wife’s mood right back in place.

Pulling away slightly, she trails her hand down between them, plucking open the bottom button of the shirt Rachel’s wearing.

“What are you doing?” Rachel huffs, which is ridiculous because it should be pretty obvious what’s she’s doing. After all, Rachel was the one with the come-fuck-me eyes in the kitchen.

“You stole my shirt.” Her knuckles brush bare skin as she gets the bottom few buttons open. “I’m taking it back.”

“What happened to what’s yours is mine?” The question comes out low and breathy and Quinn’s happy the mood is changing direction again.

“Stop talking,” Quinn commands, popping open the last button and sliding her palm over Rachel’s ribs and around to her back. Her throat goes dry at the sight of naked skin; it’s something she’s seen a million times, a million mornings, but she doesn’t think it will ever get old.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Rachel argues, pushing her chest and chin forward defiantly. But all it does is send a rush over Quinn’s skin and a shiver down her spine. White teeth scrape over Rachel’s bottom lip and Quinn’s vision goes a little hazy for a second.

“Stop being a contrarian,” Quinn whispers, sliding both hands up to Rachel’s shoulders to slide the shirt off.

It flows to the ground between them and lands there silently. “Don’t think a big vocabulary is going to seduce me.”

Quinn reaches over and twists the knob to the bedroom, wrapping her other arm around Rachel’s waist as the door slides open and they start walking inside. “Stop acting like you haven’t already been seduced.”

Rachel looks at her with narrowed eyes. “You’re so arrogant,” she says, but there’s a smirk on her lips that lets Quinn know she’s won.

They stumble the few feet inside and to the bed. “You like it.”

“Do not,” Rachel denies, lying back on their bed. The covers are still undone and twisted from the night before.

Hooking her hands under smooth thighs, Quinn spreads Rachel’s legs apart as she follows her onto the bed, lying on top of her. A smile graces her lips as she leans in close to Rachel’s face, sliding her right hand up to the inside of Rachel’s thigh until she’s trailing fingers through slick, wet heat, her other arm propping her up near Rachel’s face.

“Do too,” Quinn whispers triumphantly against parted lips.

A low, quick inhale pulls through Rachel as her hips follow the motions of Quinn’s fingers, gliding through her softly and aimlessly.

“Quinn,” Rachel lets out, the name sounding more like a plea.

They kiss, soft but with urgency and Rachel smoothes her palms up Quinn’s biceps until they’re gripping Quinn’s neck and pulling her in closer.

Quinn lets herself get lost in the sensation of kissing Rachel, of long fingers tracing shapes against her neck and the unsteady movement of Rachel’s chest against her own. She moves her mouth over Rachel’s jawbone and down her neck, inhaling deeply against warm skin while her fingers continue to move with no real purpose – up and down, back and forth.

Rachel squirms underneath her, and Quinn, recognizing the impatience in the gesture, chuckles softly into the underside of her wife’s jaw.

“Quinn,” Rachel repeats, this time as an admonishment.

Desire hums under Quinn’s skin at the sound, at the way Rachel’s breath hitches as she slides her tongue down the muscle of Rachel’s neck, and lets her fingers move more purposely, sliding down and pressing in.

Rachel’s hips jump with the motion but Quinn presses her own down against the movement, trailing kisses back upward until their lips tangle together again.

Their breathing is reduced to short pants in between kisses and Rachel’s eyes flutter closed as the heel of Quinn’s palm puts pressure on her clit.

When it’s like this, when all Quinn can think about is the way Rachel’s hair looks spread out against white sheets or the way her legs feel wrapped around Quinn’s hips, she feels the band around her heart unclench and the black fog that sits in her brain most days clears.

It’s better than coffee, better than scotch, better than winning a big case. The world shrinks down to this, this right here - with Rachel lying underneath her making the most innocently erotic noises Quinn’s ever heard out of another human being.

Quinn props her elbow on the bed so she can run a thumb over Rachel’s forehead, pushing bangs away.

“Rach,” she gasps, thrusting forward and pressing her hand down hard. “Baby, open your eyes.”

Brown eyes snap open at the command, lock with Quinn’s and she feels all the air leave her chest at the love and arousal swirling around in them. Rachel’s hands are still gripping at her neck, clenching intermittently and tangling into the messy curls there.

She lets her thumb find its way upward to replace her palm and make quick circles, the pleasure it brings evident in the way Rachel’s jaw drops open and her hips cant upward sharply into Quinn’s.

“I love you,” Quinn whispers, placing short, quick kisses from Rachel’s mouth to her ear. “I love you.”

Rachel’s hands grip her neck steadily, pulling Quinn’s face further into her shoulder as she repeats the words into blonde hair, her voice low and rough.

Fingers thrusting, Quinn smiles into smooth skin and lets the truth of the words settle in her gut, swirl in her head, and push all the blackness she know surrounds the day ahead of her away.

Rachel falls apart with an arch of her back and a sharp cry and Quinn feels the tightness all throughout her body, keeps moving her fingers as the waves shudder through her wife.

It takes large gulps of air for Rachel to settle and wrap her hand around Quinn’s wrist, pulling it out from its warm haven.

Quinn lifts up and away from Rachel, her hips still pressed in between toned thighs. She brings her hand up and runs her tongue over her fingers, cleaning them off with slow, sure licks as she stares at her wife through hooded eyes.

Before she can do anything else, like bring her body down to kiss Rachel again or slide down the bed and rip another orgasm out of her with her mouth, Rachel is bucking upwards and pushing Quinn with her.

Lying on her back, the air whooshes out of her in surprise. Rachel is practically beaming from her position, straddling Quinn’s hips and trailing a finger down the vein in Quinn’s neck.

“How did you manage to keep all your clothes on through that?” Rachel asks, her voice sated in a way that shoots straight to Quinn’s groin.

Quinn gulps, her hands automatically moving to palm Rachel’s thighs. “I don’t know,” she says, trying to sound calm and steady, but Rachel’s finger is tracing the neckline of Quinn’s tank top and it seems to be affecting her ability to speak.

Small hands leave her neck to shift the bottom of her tank top up, running over the muscles in her abdomen and pushing the fabric upwards. It forces Quinn to move her hands above her head and lift her back off the bed but soon she’s lying topless on the bed.

Rachel hums and lets her hands travel aimlessly across Quinn’s chest. It’s maddening and arousing at the same time.

“Rachel,” she warns, her hands resettled on toned thighs and sliding up.

Her wife clucks at her and smirks, gripping both of Quinn’s hands and bringing them to rest on the sheets above Quinn’s head. Rachel falls forward with the motion until they’re pressed bare chest to bare chest.

Rachel’s hair forms a sort of curtain around them and Quinn licks her lips at the feel of Rachel straddling her hips, heat pressing into the skin where they’re connected.

Then Rachel stills. Just stops. Her hands are still gripping Quinn’s, stretching out the blonde’s torso under Rachel and their lips are mere inches part, still and unmoving.

Quinn groans when comprehension dawns and she realizes what’s happening.

“Rachel,” she intones darkly. “Get on with it.”

A deep throaty laugh comes out of her wife and Quinn feels wetness pool between her legs at the sound. “You really think I’d let you get away with last night?”

Her teeth scrape against her lip as she stares into laughing eyes. “Rachel,” she repeats, incapable of coming up with anything more intelligent. Shows how three years of law school really improved her arguing skills. Then again, no law school in the country really prepares you for the full Rachel Berry assault.

“In fact,” Rachel whispers, moving her lips to Quinn’s ears. “I’m pretty sure those handcuffs are still here somewhere.”

One hand releases Quinn’s for a moment before the grip is readjusted and Rachel has both hands gripped together under her one, the other scrambling under the covers of their bed searching for something.

Quinn closes her eyes and swallows, presses her chest closer to Rachel and enjoys the way arousal makes her head swim.

When she hears the telltale click of the handcuffs she stole from Santana last week, her throat goes thick and her eyes snap open.

Rachel chuckles again and smiles at her, the expression somewhere between sexy and completely evil.

Quinn presses her head further into the bed and accepts her fate. She is going to be so late for work today.

\--

Close to two hours later, her heels click loudly against the tile floor of her office lobby, her personality changing, shifting with each loud clack that resounds through the space. Here at work it's a different world, a more dangerous one, and she can't afford to be anything but cold, calm, calculating. She pushes memories of the way Rachel looked that morning out of her head, tries not to remember the way she felt, skin against skin, and stamps down the flush that threatens to overtake her when the memory of Rachel's lips down her neck lingers in her mind.

Ryan, her office assistant, hands her a cup of coffee the minute she walks in her office door and starts reading off a stack of pink slips containing her messages. She throws her coat on a hanger and her briefcase on a chair. She lets his voice roll over her, hears the various reminders about court dates and client interviews and watches the rain fall down outside her office window.

Ryan's still talking when a fellow prosecutor, Jared, sticks his head in the door and calls out her name, holding a long, yellow folder towards her.

"Tell me that's not another case you're going to stick on me," Quinn says, eying the folder and nodding her head at Ryan in a silent command to leave. She sets her coffee down on the desk.

Jared steps in the room, smiling at Ryan as he passes before turning back to Quinn. "I just need you to take this one, okay. I can't try it."

Quinn raises an eyebrow, stepping around her desk and walking over to him. "Can't or won't?"

"Quinn," the tall, brown haired man starts.

"Jared," she interrupts, holding up a hand to stop him. "I have a full day today. See that pile on my desk?" She points a finger towards a stack of folders easily a foot high. "That's my caseload. _Today._ "

"It's on Sylvester's docket," Jared explains, looking at her with pleading eyes. "You know she hates me."

"That's really _your_ problem," Quinn argues, crossing her arms and staring him down. "Not mine." A jolt of satisfaction goes through her when she sees her glare working. Staring down a guy over a foot taller than you? Always enjoyable.

Jared puts his arms out, palms up, in a defeated gesture and continues. "The girl is really sweet. I'd feel bad to lose this one and Sylvester likes you. Everyone knows you're the only one with a chance of winning in her courtroom. Come on," he entreats. "Please."

She sighs, eyes the pile on her desk again before looking up into his big eyes. It was true, Judge Sue Sylvester was known for being a menace in the courtroom, a complete abuser of judicial power, but for some reason, the woman had taken a liking to Quinn.

"Fine," she replies, holding out her hand for the file. "Give it to me."

A relieved breath escapes him as the larger man hands the file over and turns to walk out, adjusting his tie as he goes and giving her a dimpled smile. "Thanks, Quinn, you're the best."

"Yeah, yeah," she replies, waiting until he leaves to walk back around her desk and drop the file on the top of it, dropping heavily into her chair.

Strong wind rattles the window behind her as she reaches out for her coffee mug and flips open the file, the front page nearly making her spit liquid across her desk. The coughing sound brings Ryan back into the doorway but she waves him off with a shake of her head and a warning hand, trying to stop choking as she sets her coffee back down on the desk.

It's like falling down a dark, twisty hole and Quinn's head swims as she takes in the contents of the file, the case she just took on. It takes her a good minute before her vision stops wavering and her hand stops shaking.

She picks up the pictures. Brittany, her childhood friend. Roger Pike, known mafia mercenary. A headache starts to creep up her neck, pounding at the base of her skull as she keeps reading all the facts, the trial date, the witness statements. Suddenly, she wonders if Santana knows, scrambles through the sheets to see which officers were assigned the case.

_Matt Rutherford and Finn Hudson._

She exhales in relief. The last thing she needs to worry about is her best friend, Santana Lopez, on some vigilante crusade - which is exactly what will happen if Santana finds out.

Quinn twirls a pen around in her fingers, and runs a hand through her hair before dragging it over her face.

It's going to be a long day.

\--  
 _  
A loud, incessant knocking startled her out of sleep as she jerked away from Rachel and squinted at their bedroom door. The noise resounded through the apartment and she let out a confused exhale before turning to find the time, red digits staring at her from over Rachel's shoulder. The clock on the bedside table read 4:15 and she groaned in frustration. Asleep for two hours. Work was going to be awesome tomorrow._

_Rachel stirred as the knocking continued, pushing her butt back into Quinn's hips and mumbling in protest. "Door," the brunette let out, her voice half muffled by the pillow._

_Quinn chuckled and threw the covers off her legs, sliding out of bed and reaching for a sweatshirt lying on the floor. The pounding continued as she padded barefoot out of their bedroom and down the hallway, headed for the front door._

_When she put an eye against the peephole and spotted her best friend, swaying in front of it, she rolled her eyes and swung open the door, Santana nearly falling forward before catching herself._

_"What the fuck took so long?" Santana snapped as she stumbled across the threshold and made her way to the living room._

_Quinn eyed the bottle of Johnny Walker dangling from her friend's hand with a raised eyebrow. "It's four in the morning," Quinn answered, following Santana into the next room and watching her plop down on the couch._

_Then, Santana just stared at her, her head unsteady on her shoulders and Quinn noticed uncharacteristic redness around her friend's eyes, a puffiness to her cheeks and if Quinn didn't know any better she'd say Santana had been crying._

_But that couldn't be right. Santana Lopez did_ not _cry._

_"I'm a terrible girlfriend," Santana slurred out, letting her head fall against the arm of the couch and swinging her legs up so she was spread across it. "I'm a terrible person."_

_"What did you do this time?" Quinn asked, assuming this was, as always, about Brittany._

_"You're married," Santana breathed out, her voice full of awe and wonder as if she had just realized this._

_Both eyebrows went straight up on Quinn's forehead. "Yes," she answered, nodding._

_"Married," Santana repeated, shaking her head and pointing the bottle of scotch at Quinn. "Like..._ married. _"_

_Quinn laughed, part amused, part concerned and patted Santana's feet. "You're drunk. I'm going to call Brittany."_

_At that, Santana shot up off the couch and grabbed Quinn's wrist before the blonde could make it out of the room. "NO," she commanded, her voice low and broken. "Don't call Brittany."_

_"Okay," Quinn said, drawing out the word. She furrowed her brow as she looked down on her friend, real concern now making its way into her gut. Santana did this every once in awhile - got into an argument with Brittany, found a liquor store, drank half of it, showed up at Quinn's. It was kind of routine. It didn't happen often, just every few months when they got into a particularly bad fight. Quinn would call Brittany who would make her way down to the apartment, collect Santana with a disapproving glare and the two would usually end up starting embarrassing, drunken make up sex in Quinn's front hall._

_That's how it went._

_Santana asking Quinn not to call Brittany? That didn't happen so much. Quinn had half a mind to do it regardless of how Santana felt._

_But then her best friend's face scrunched up and Quinn could see the tears starting, the anger in Santana's shoulders set in and really, this wasn't something she was used to. Santana got angry. All the time. Santana's default for almost any emotional situation was anger. Tears, sadness? Not so much._

_"Hey," Quinn whispered, sitting down on the couch next to her friend. "What happened?"_

_Santana shook her head and looked at Quinn, jaw tight and eyes blurry. "I'm a terrible person," she slurred again, before dropping to the side, her head into Quinn's shoulder as she brought the bottle of scotch up and tipped it against her lips._

_A shuffle of footsteps brought her attention towards the hallway to see Rachel standing there, her hair a mess and a look of confusion all over her face. Quinn stared at her over Santana's head and shook her head back and forth, signaling her wife to go back to bed._

_Santana handed the bottle of Johnny Walker over to Quinn who took it wordlessly and threw a sip back herself. She could feel disapproval radiating off of Rachel, but the shorter woman merely walked over to the small cabinet on the far wall and pulled out an extra pillow and blanket, brought it back over to the couch and set it down next to Quinn._

_A hand reached out and stroked her hair before Rachel leaned down and kissed her forehead. Throughout the whole thing, Santana just leaned into Quinn, stared straight ahead and took almost no notice of Rachel. It really was the most concerning thing of all._

_The brunette looked down at Santana for a moment after smiling at Quinn and brought a hand out to touch Santana's cheek. She smiled at the two of them before turning and strolling out of the room._  
  
\--

Her phone feels unnaturally heavy in her palm. She flips it open, then closed, and open once more before setting it on her desk. There’s a landline on the corner of her desk and her work phone is sitting on a stack of files. She needs to pick one up, dial the numbers, and talk to Brittany. She needs to do this and yet she’s having trouble getting her fingers to obey the duty.

The file open on her desk has all the numbers she needs, but her brain can’t seem to wrap her head around the information. Aside from the name, date of birth and the picture, everything else on the page seems eerily foreign. A new phone number, a new address and for whatever reason, reading all that information makes it feel like Brittany has a new life. Which, Quinn supposes, is true.

She picks her cell phone up again, sliding her thumb over the keypad until it’s pressing down on the number 5 and holding it until the phone connects. She doesn’t bring the phone to her ear because she knows the call won’t go through, the number’s been disconnected for six months.

Brittany’s old number. She’s never deleted it or taken it off her speed dial. Doing so would have felt way too final, would have felt like it does right now staring at Brittany’s new numbers.

The air conditioner clicks as it goes through its cycle and a strong gust of wind beats against the window behind her. The faint sound of an automated message coming out of the phone reaches her ears so she presses the _end_ button and disconnects the call.

A sigh escapes her as she moves her thumb to 3, presses down and holds, this time actually bringing the phone to her ear to hear the ringing sound down the line.

It takes about four rings before a familiar voice greets her. “Hey,” she breathes out.

“Hi!” Rachel’s voice is bright and cheery and exactly what Quinn needs right now. “Have you seen my Louboutin’s?”

She can hear movement and rustling, presumably because Rachel is scouring one of the various closets in their place. She wracks her brain to try and remember where she last saw the red-soled pumps.

Then, with a pleasant flush a rather heated memory comes. “Did you check under the bed?”

A beat later Rachel laughs. “I don’t know how I forgot that.”

Quinn hums affirmatively down the line and traces her finger over a line in the wood of her desk.

“So what’s up?” Rachel asks, grunting. Quinn can imagine her bending down to pull her shoes out from under the bed.

“Nothing, just saying hi,” Quinn responds, running a hand down her face.

“Yeah?” Rachel pauses. “Everything okay?”

Quinn swallows and lets Rachel’s voice still the shaking in her joints. “Yeah, everything is great. I just miss you.” It’s sentimental and sappy and Quinn kind of feels lame for saying it, but it’s true and she needs the sure foundation that Rachel provides her before she goes about her next task.

“I miss you too, baby,” Rachel replies. “Are you going to be late tonight?”

The question is full of invitation and promise and Quinn can practically see the suggestion on Rachel’s face. “You got plans?”

“Just come home as soon as you can.”

“I will,” Quinn says, eyes closing briefly.

“I love you,” Rachel intones.

“Yeah,” Quinn responds. “Me too.”

“I’ll see you at home,” Rachel says before the line disconnects and Quinn is left listening to a dial tone.

Breathing deeply, she steadies herself and forces confidence into her body. She lets her eyes trace over the file again and finds the new number that will reach Brittany. A number that is new and weird and her fingers stumble over the keys as she tries to type it in.

Brittany picks up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Brittany?” Quinn asks, all confidence rushing out of her.

There’s a silence and all Quinn can hear is the rain against the window behind her before Brittany’s voice comes back on the line, “Quinn?”

The urge to cry is strong and she has to rub a hand over her eyes to stave the tears off, but she hasn’t heard Brittany’s voice in six months and now here she is, recognizing Quinn’s voice like they had only spoken yesterday.

Then again, they had been friends for decades. Quinn’s pretty sure their voices are etched on each other’s hearts. She doesn’t understand how her life ended up like this; she doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to being _Santana and Quinn_ without Brittany. Or for that matter – Quinn without _Santana and Brittany._

“Hi, Britt,” she says, letting out a long breath.

“Hi,” Brittany replies, full of awe and wonder.

“I’m calling about the case. The burglary,” she clarifies with a small cough. “It came across my desk this morning and I just wanted to go over your statement really quick.”

“How are you?” Brittany asks.

Suddenly derailed, Quinn stalls, the words stuck in her throat. She needs to keep this professional or she thinks she’s going to break apart. Talking to Brittany like they’re just checking up seems wrong.

“I’m fine,” she clips out. “How are you doing?” It’s half work, half personal but she has the sudden urge to make sure one of her closest friends is okay. She was just burgled after all.

“I’m staying with Mike,” Brittany blurts out. “Just for a few days.”

Quinn almost laughs. Really, she almost laughs because she feels like this is six months ago when Brittany ran from Santana’s and stayed at Mike’s apartment for the first few weeks. It’s humorous and terribly depressing all at the same time.

“That’s good,” Quinn says. She pauses, swallows and flicks her nail against the edge of the file. “I’m sorry.”

She means it about the case, about Roger Pike breaking into the studio and taking her stuff but there’s more to it and Quinn’s pretty sure Brittany gets it right away.

“Me too,” Brittany whispers.

Her throat hurts as she swallows and pinches the bridge of her nose against sudden pain. A deep breath and a clearing of the knot in her throat later and Quinn focuses on the case, gets through the conversation as fast as possible.

 _Stay professional, Quinn Fabray,_ she tells herself. _That’s what you’re good at. Keep your personal life out of your work._

She’s had far too much practice at it, after all.

\--

Hours later, the apartment is quiet and empty when she walks in, flapping her jacket out to get rid of the rainwater and setting her umbrella down by the door. Exhaustion runs through her and she feels like she ran a marathon today, fell over, got up and ran one again. She needs to eat and she can almost hear her stomach growl at the prospect, but more than that she wants to sink into her bed, into her wife, and forget this day ever happened.

Forget that she has one best friend recently robbed and the other completely unaware of the fact, probably still at work or sitting in a bar at this very moment.

Her briefcase feels heavy, like it's pulling her arm to the ground, overburdened by the weight of Brittany's case file. Her personal life and work, tangling together in a way that makes her itch, makes her cringe and makes her want to quit her job, steal away with Rachel to a deserted island where none of this crap can touch them.

So many secrets. Her life is full of _so many_ secrets.

Talking to Brittany had been strange, and exhausting and she could still feel the sharp stab of pain and guilt that struck her at the sound of her friend's voice. She hasn't seen Brittany in six months, six _long_ months, ever since the blonde up and left Santana. She had left Quinn too.

For a long time after Brittany left, Quinn was mad at Santana, mad at her for not chasing the blonde, for not fixing things, for shoving Brittany out of Quinn's life just as much as her own. A part of her, she thinks, still is. But seeing Santana so broken, so constantly out of sorts, sweeps her anger away into a place of deep, unsettling empathy.

A long, low exhale escapes her as she walks further into the apartment, bypassing the kitchen and heading straight for the office. Rachel is somewhere in the apartment, that much she knows, and as much as Quinn wants to seek her out and forget this day, she needs to get her head on straight first. Rachel will see right through it, will sense the turmoil swirling around in Quinn and she doesn't think she can handle the calm, understanding sympathy she'll get from her wife.

But, as it turns out, Rachel is actually in her office and all plans to avoid her are pretty much destroyed the second she walks in the door.

"Hey!" Rachel exclaims, bright and cheery. "I was just looking for my..." the brunette trailed off as she took in Quinn's expression. "What happened?"

Quinn walks the rest of the way in, throws her briefcase on the desk and shrugs out of her jacket, coming around to kiss Rachel hello on the temple. "Long day."

"Yeah?" Rachel asks, eyes narrowed, skepticism all over her features. "Did you get stuck in court like you thought?"

She thinks about lying, considers it for a long serious moment. She could probably deal with this whole case herself, not have to tell Santana or Rachel. Just get the case tried, bring Brittany's problem to justice, move on. Bringing it all back up right now was going to send their already fragile lives into a tailspin.

But this is Rachel, the human lie detector when it comes to Quinn and she can already feel her palms start to sweat so she just reaches into her briefcase and pulls out the file, handing it over to her wife wordlessly.

Rachel's brows come together in confusion but she takes the file and flips it open, surprise shooting across her face as she reads the contents. It's not strictly ethical, sharing the details of a case like this, but spousal privilege has to count for something.

"Oh my gosh," the other girl breathes. "Is she okay?"

"Yeah," Quinn replies. "I just talked to her."

"Does Santana know?" Rachel looks up from the file, shutting it and throwing it on the desk when she notices Quinn's expression.

"I can't tell her, she'll do something idiotic," Quinn answers.

"Quinn, you have to tell her," Rachel argues.

"No," she continues. "That's a bad idea." Which isn't entirely true, she wants to tell Santana, hates that she has yet another thing to hide from her best friend, but she's still worried, concerned what the news could do. And again, it's not really her place to tell Santana of a case she picked up. It's Rutherford and Hudson's case. She can't just go dump it on Santana. “I can take care of it myself.”

Rachel shakes her head. "She deserves to know, Quinn. This is _Brittany_ we're talking about."

"They're not together anymore," Quinn says, feeling lame. Brittany might have left but Quinn knows probably better than anyone that Santana and Brittany will probably forever be _Santana and Brittany_ no matter physical location.

"If you were Santana and she were you," Rachel responds, stepping up closer to Quinn and lowering her voice. "If I was Brittany, would you think you deserved to know?"

The images slide and switch and all of a sudden Quinn's seeing Rachel's face instead of Brittany's, feeling desperation that wasn't there before. She darts her arm out to wrap around Rachel's waist and tugs her closer, staring down at her wife with sad realization. "I'd kill her if she didn't tell me."

With a knowing grin, Rachel reaches out with both hands, cups Quinn's cheeks in her own and looks straight into her eyes. "The last thing you need right now is another secret between you and Santana."

The blonde swallows, purses her lips and nods.

"I'll tell her." As soon as she figures out _how._

\--  
  
 _Quinn leaned forward on her stool, twirling an olive around in her martini and followed Santana's gaze to the dance floor. Blonde hair and long limbs flailed about as Brittany made herself known on the dance floor, Mike having an equally good time next to her. They both watched as the pair continued to dance around each other, legs moving around drunkenly and before they knew it the two were kissing, surrounded by people._

_“Brittany’s making out with Mike again,” Quinn said, dryly._

_Santana chuckled, shook her head and went back to her drink. “I know.”_

_“And that doesn’t bother you?”_

_It was a frequent argument between the two of them, Quinn still unable to understand Brittany and Santana’s relationship after nearly seven years._

_“Brittany makes out with everyone,” Santana said, amused. “Plus, Mike’s gay.”_

_“I will never understand you,” Quinn said, taking a short sip of her martini before setting it down again._

_“What?” Santana replied, never taking her eyes of Brittany._

_“You’ll punch out a guy for so much as looking at her, scratch the eyes out of any girl that dare ask her out, but you’ll let a close friend of hers stick his tongue down her throat on the dance floor and not so much as muster up a glare?”_

_“It’s me she comes home with.” Santana shrugged, smiled at Quinn. “I can share.”_

_A laugh burst out of Quinn. “You so cannot. I’m shocked they let you out of kindergarten.”_

_“You’re such a bitch sometimes,” Santana said, but she was smiling._

_“I’m just saying. Of all the things you don’t share well,” Quinn started. “And that’s a long list, you’re terrible at sharing Brittany.”_

_Santana shrugged again. “It’s not like he’s going to take her away from me. She’s a good kisser. She can do what she wants.”_

_“She is,” Quinn agreed before she could stop herself. “I remember,” she mumbled._

_It was quick and barely noticeable but Santana’s mood shifted in an instant. “Rewind.”_

_“Huh?” Quinn feigned ignorance once she realized what she revealed, tried to wipe her face of any emotion._

_“You remember what?” Santana turned to face her and glared, putting on a face Quinn was well familiar with, the one that said Quinn better fess up before Santana smacks her._

_“I kissed Brittany once. In your bedroom. When we were in high school. We broke that LFO CD you liked so much when she pushed me onto the bed,” she shot out, the words coming out in short tumbles, saying way more than she probably needed to._

_“You broke my LFO CD?!” Santana nearly shouted, both eyebrows high on her forehead._

_Quinn jerked back. “That’s what you’re focusing on?”_

_“I fucking loved that CD!”_

_It’s not that Quinn was disappointed that Santana was definitely focusing on the more innocent part of her confession, it was more that she was afraid maybe Santana hadn’t actually heard her._

_“You got the part where I kissed Brittany, right?”_

_Santana waved her off. “Yeah, I knew that already.”_

_It was Quinn’s turn to feel shock and indignation. “What do you mean you already knew?!”_

_“Brittany made out with everyone in high school, do you really think you were safe from that?” Santana crossed her arms over her chest and leaned a hip against the bar. “Especially with that hilarious gay panic crisis you had back then. Britt’s a fixer, what can I say?”_

_Quinn opened her mouth to answer but when no words came out she snapped it shut, looking to where Brittany was still dancing around Mike out on the dance floor._

_“Yeah,” Santana continued. “Britt and I don’t exactly keep secrets.” It was said low and pointed in a way Quinn knew was an admonishment._

_She sighed, turned to look at her friend. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”_

_“Which part, kissing my girlfriend or keeping it from me for years?”_

_“The second part,” Quinn answers. “Well I guess the first part too.”_

_Santana picked her drink up and took a sip before speaking again. “You didn’t have to hide it from me,” she said. “I wouldn’t have been mad.”_

_Quinn lifted an eyebrow at her. “You’re so full of shit.”_

_“Okay, maybe for like a day. But I would have gotten over it,” Santana admitted. “Like I said, Britt makes out with everyone. You really think I would have disowned you over something stupid like that?”_

_“Well,” Quinn said after a beat feeling like maybe she should apologize but not really knowing what’s going on._

_“It’s fine, Q,” Santana chuckled and Quinn knew her friend’s good mood was half the vodka cranberry next to her hand and half that she could see Brittany coming off the dance floor and making their way towards them. “Secrets are dumb though, especially stupid ones like that. We’re best friends, you should tell me that shit.”_

_Quinn nodded, let out a low exhale. “My bad.”_

_“Just don’t do it again,” Santana warned, leaning close to her friend. “Kiss her, I mean.”_

_Quinn scrunched her forehead up in confusion. “I will never understand you,” she said, almost laughing again. “This is easily the sixteenth time she’s made out with Mike.”_

_“You’re hotter than Mike,” Santana said, winking as Brittany bounced over to them, practically flew into Santana and pressed an indecently hot kiss to her mouth._

_“Hey, babe,” Santana greeted, smiling up at her girlfriend._

_Brittany leaned over and whispered something in Santana’s ear that made her break out into a massive grin and tighten the grip she had around Brittany’s waist._

_Quinn rolled her eyes and smiled at Mike before lifting her martini to her lips._  
  
\--

Quinn slides her glasses off and drops them on her desk, the frames making a soft thud as they hit the stack of papers there. She rubs her eyes absently, trying to will away her headache and listens to the sound of rain hitting the glass window to her left. It's a comforting sound and for a few minutes she lets it wash over her, nearly falling asleep.

The file open on top of the pile stares up at her, the pictures and words seared into her brain with how many times she's read it over the past three days.

Roger Pike. Organized crime. The monster that lives in her closet, the enemy she feels like she's been fighting all her life.

And then worse. Her best friend's ex-girlfriend. One of her closest childhood friends. Victim of a robbery.

She stares at the picture of Brittany through her fingers, letting her eyes focus in and out on the blonde's face. It had been six months since she had last seen Brittany and even though it was Brittany that left it kind of felt like Santana had too. She barely saw her anymore, her best friend lost in a haze of work and alcohol and nicotine.

A heavy gust of air blows out of her and she tries to prepare herself for the night ahead. She has to tell Santana, has to tell her _tonight_ , but a part of her doesn't want to at all. A big part really, because she has no idea what the news will do to her friend, what kind of reaction she'll have, but knowing Santana Lopez, it won't be good.

She runs her fingers purposefully over the papers spread out across her desk until they hit one that feels different from the others, a smooth glossy front with straight, sharp edges and she pulls it out from underneath her case files, stuck there from when she had stuffed it in with all the contents of her briefcase.

Her eyes roam the hazy picture, looking more like a collection of blurred lines and black blobs than anything else but she sees her future in it, her whole world, and everything good about her dark, tainted existence. Her chest tightens up but she breathes easy, letting hope run through her quick and hurried before she can stop it. These days, the picture is one of the few things that makes Quinn feel happiness, free and easy.

The office door clicks open and the smell of warm food wafts in as Rachel leans against the open door and observes her. She can hear the muffled sound of clinking glasses and low murmurs floating in from their living room.

"Hey you," the brunette says, smiling at her affectionately.

Quinn, drops the picture back on the desk, pushes back and leans into her chair, letting her head fall back against the leather. "Hey," she greets, smiling softly in return.

Rachel saunters over to her desk after she slides the door shut again and Quinn lets her eyes roam up her wife's legs, exposed by the completely indecent, short, _mouth-watering_ skirt Rachel is currently sporting. She feels her smile turn up at the view and lets thoughts of the real world flow out of her in favor of the sight of the ridiculously attractive brunette, now perched on her desk.

Quinn runs her hand up a smooth leg and smiles up at Rachel. "Nice skirt," she comments.

A prim, but knowing smile comes across Rachel's face as the shorter girl crosses her legs and places a heeled foot in Quinn's lap. "Thanks," she says.

"You're welcome," Quinn replies, tugging off her wife's shoe and running her thumbs up the arch of Rachel's foot.

"We have guests," Rachel chastises, both for the look of intent Quinn knows is on her face and for the way Quinn has been holed up in her office since the party started.

"I know," Quinn breathes out, running one hand up Rachel's calf and squeezing the muscle.

Rachel looks over her shoulder to the desk she’s leaning against and Quinn watches a bright smile light up her face at the conspicuous black standing out amongst the files, and for a moment, Quinn’s world feels simple and easy and amazing. But then her wife’s eyebrow arches up as she recognizes the file lying open on the desk. "Have you told her?"

The foot in her hand presses forward and down, the heel digging into her thigh when she doesn't answer. "Quinn," Rachel admonishes. "I thought you said you were going to tell her."

"I was, I am," Quinn says, sighing and leaning back farther into her chair. She rolls her eyes at Rachel's doubtful expression. "I'll tell her tonight."

Rachel's lips form a thin line and she grabs her shoe out of Quinn's grasp, slipping it back on and sliding off the desk. "I'm sending her straight back here, Quinn Fabray. Tell her," she orders.

Quinn's tried to tell her over a dozen times the past few days, each time the words getting lost in the back of her throat, unable to say them aloud. Most likely, tonight won't be any different. But she can see the resolve in Rachel's face, the unspoken threat that if she didn't do as she was told there'd be serious issues.

She feels a little anger come bubbling up, a natural reaction to being bossed around but it's also part fear, part worry, part dread. She pushes it down. Getting mad at her wife right now, picking a fight to avoid the harsh reality she knows faces her is a coward's choice.

"I will," Quinn replies, jaw clenched and voice determined. "Send her back when she gets here."

Rachel drops a long kiss on Quinn's forehead, and lingers there for a moment, but before she can break away and leave, Quinn grabs her wrist, and tugs downward so that Rachel falls unceremoniously into her lap, yelping in surprise.

“Guests,” Rachel reminds her as Quinn runs a hand up her smooth, tan thigh and reaches up to kiss her.

“They’ll survive without you for five minutes,” Quinn retorts, running a nail up Rachel’s skirt, tracing toned muscle.

Rachel’s eyes glaze over, her hands come up to tangle in blonde hair and Quinn knows she’s won. Her wife is so _easy_ these days, and she means that in the _best_ way possible.

“Make it ten,” Rachel whispers, closing the space between them and smashing their mouths together.

\--

When she finally tells Santana, the worst part is definitely the way Santana's face pales, the way her eyes go blank, and the air of indifference she tries to project. It's all so sad, bleak, and depressing and Quinn really wants to make it go away but has no idea how to do it.

She watches as her friend turns her gaze to the glass of scotch Quinn just handed her, moves it back and forth in her hand and tries to act nonchalant. “Good for her. That’s really not my problem anymore.”

Quinn shakes her head because Santana might be able to deny a lot of things, but this, this is just the truth, unshakable and constant.

So she leans forward and throws a hand on top of the glass Santana is holding, forces her friend to make eye contact. “Santana,” she starts, low and certain. “You were together since you were thirteen. She will _always_ be your problem.”

It sits there, in the silence, and Quinn can see the way Santana swallows, the way her eyes start to glaze over and the tension all throughout her body. She hates it, wants to take it back, all of a sudden.

The words seem to sink in and soon after Santana is pulling the glass away, throwing the rest of her scotch back, uttering a low _thanks_ and standing up, heading for the door.

This is the part she was concerned about, the part where Santana leaves and does something ridiculous, like get way too drunk, like punch a wall, like find Brittany and make an ass of herself. "Where are you going?"

"I gotta get out of here," Santana replies, trying to sound flippant but failing.

Quinn _knows_ Santana.

"Santana," Quinn tries.

Santana turns around to look at her, looking lost and exhausted. "I'm just tired, Q. Really. I'm fine."

It's only half a lie but Quinn can see the absence of calm rage, the biggest tip when it comes to Santana doing something asinine. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Like what?"

Quinn raises an eyebrow and cocks her head to the side. As if Quinn wasn't there the last time Santana got piss drunk over Brittany and threw a tequila bottle at a wall, or the time she punched out that hot dog vendor on 7th street. "You know what."

"Whatever," Santana throws over her shoulder, making her way to the door and exiting the office.

\--

It takes a good five minutes before Quinn can leave the office, five minutes spent fingering her glass of scotch and staring at the case file in front of her. Roger Pike. Organized crime. Brittany. Involved even tangentially with the mafia. Dread seeps through her and a dark, ominous feeling creeps up her spine for the hundredth time in the last few days. Nothing good is going to come of this, she knows it.

She takes a deep breath and tries to collect herself, put on a new face so she can go out and face the party - she's been rude enough as it is, staying in her office like a loner recluse. Three steps towards the door, halfway through straightening her clothes out and Rachel's throwing the door open, stepping inside and shutting it behind her.

"Santana just took off with Puck," she starts, walking towards Quinn to meet her in the middle of the room.

"I told her," Quinn says.

"I figured."

"She's going to go do something stupid now," Quinn replies, half a chuckle coming out under her breath.

"That's what Santana does," Rachel says, winding her arms around Quinn's waist and arching upward to press their mouths together. "Don't worry so much."

"Yeah I guess," she answers, hooking her arms around Rachel's neck and pulling their bodies in closer together.

"It's going to be okay, baby. I promise," Rachel intones, whispered and low against Quinn's lips.

It's a warm feeling, having someone reassuring her that it would be okay, that she didn't have to worry, to know that no matter what, Rachel would be there, day in and day out. But Quinn can't stamp down the tendril of doubt wrapping itself around her, the fear that this is only the beginning and she just sent her best friend out to do God knows what. She wants to believe Rachel, wants to let the worry bleed out of her but she can't because there's a part of her that's certain. _It's not going to be okay._ Not for a while.

It’s not going to be okay because she just opened an old wound, split it wide open and watched it fester on her best friend’s face. Just unleashed that tornado of pain and anger on the world, and she sat back while it brewed in her own office and then blew out. She can almost see Santana now, walking down the street towards Rick’s, throwing back shots of tequila, pain mixing with rage until one isn’t distinguishable from another. Then calm. The scary calm Santana always gets when she’s made a decision, channeling her emotion into action.

The urge to bolt after her, to pull her friend back inside, ripples through her, makes her pull Rachel closer and swallow dryly against the feeling, her stomach turning over despite itself.

So instead of answering, instead of agreeing with her wife and smiling, she slants her lips against Rachel's again, grips her hands in long brown hair and forgets everything but the way Rachel feels and tastes and sounds before breaking apart after a long, hot minute.

"Let's get back to the party," she suggests, disengaging from Rachel and tugging her out of the office.

Rachel looks like she doesn't buy it, like she's going to protest, but they run into guests before the shorter girl can say another word.

Quinn smiles, forces her body to be loose and easy as she mingles, but the unsettling feeling in her gut sits there like a heavy brick. She thinks Rachel’s hand, gripping tightly to her own, is the only think stopping her from running out the door.


	2. Part Two

Quinn doesn’t see Santana for almost a full day after the party. It makes work practically unbearable as worry eats away at her appetite and settles a sharp headache behind her eyes. The clock ticks to two o’clock when her office door swings open and Rachel strolls in, a brown paper bag in one hand and a coffee cup in the other.

“What are you doing here?” Quinn asks, half standing in her chair before Rachel waves her back down. “Is everything okay?”

“I was on my way to rehearsals,” Rachel answers, coming around Quinn’s desk and dropping the bag on top of the files open there. “I assumed you would have forgotten lunch.”

It wasn’t that she had forgotten; Quinn had watched lunch tick by on the clock on her wall, the churning in her gut making food seem undesirable. The smells coming out of the bag Rachel had just sat in front of her, however, kick start her appetite.

“Thanks, baby,” Quinn replies, reaching for the bag as Rachel sets the coffee cup on the desk. “Coffee?”

Rachel moves some files over on the desk and hops up on it, crossing her legs and looking down at Quinn. “Yeah, I thought you’d be tired too since you barely slept last night.” It’s said with a pointed look in her direction so Quinn looks down at the bag to avoid eye contact.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, opening up her lunch. Her stomach growls when her eyes take in the delicious sight of a Rueben sandwich from the deli down the block. “You are so my favorite wife.”

A foot darts forward and kicks her in the thigh but they both chuckle as Quinn takes out her sandwich and bites off a large chunk and feels the food take the place of worry in her gut.

“You want some?” Quinn offers, chewing around the words.

Rachel’s face pinches together as she observes the sandwich. “No, thank you. It’s all yours.”

Quinn laughs. “You so want some.”

“I do not!” Rachel denies.

Her laughter increases as she watches conflicting emotions cross her wife’s face. It feels good for a moment, to forget about what’s going on in her life, her job and focus on something that seems in her control, safe and protected from all the nastiness swirling in her head.

Quinn reaches for her coffee cup and brings it to her lips, the liquid warming her throat comfortingly as it goes down. Then, as if realizing what she’s holding, she eyes the cup suspiciously before turning towards Rachel.

“You didn’t have any of this did you?” It’s not that Quinn can taste the difference between decaf coffee and regular except she _totally_ can and yeah maybe she’s overly militant about the whole thing but she can’t help it, the protective instinct in her is too strong.

The eye roll Rachel gives her is exaggerated and full of exasperation but Rachel’s smiling a little as she shakes her head. “No, I had a perfectly useless cup of decaf before I got here.”

“I love you,” Quinn draws out, putting her coffee back down and bringing her sandwich back up to her lips.

Rachel hops of the desk and turns to look down at Quinn, a half smile on her lips. “I have to go, I’ll be home around nine, don’t work too late.”

“Short day today,” Quinn comments.

“That will change soon,” Rachel says, chuckling. “I’ll have full days in a few weeks.”

“Not if you tell them,” Quinn said, taking another bite of her sandwich.

Silence greets the statement so Quinn arches an eyebrow at her wife, staring at her over the sandwich clutched in her hands.

“Rachel,” Quinn intones, setting her Reuben down and swallowing.

“Quinn,” Rachel interrupts. “I’m the lead. I can’t just take time off.”

“You have an understudy for a reason,” Quinn argues.

Brown eyes go wide with indignation and Quinn can practically feel Rachel bristle. “You know how I feel about that word.”

Quinn rolls her eyes and chuckles before getting serious. Rachel’s leg is warm and smooth when she wraps her palm around it, pulling her wife towards her and looking up at her. “I just worry about you is all.”

Her eyes flutter closed when Rachel runs a hand through Quinn’s hair and her head falls forward, her forehead hitting Rachel’s hipbone and staying there.

“I love you,” Rachel whispers.

Quinn smiles and breathes easy.

\--  
 _  
“Hey, Quinn,” Brittany greeted, walking into Santana’s room and shutting the door behind her with a soft click. “What’re you doing up here?”_

_Quinn stood up abruptly from Santana’s bed and dropped the CD she was holding onto the mattress, heat rushing to her cheeks at being caught hiding._

_“Nothing,” she sputtered, wide eyed._

_Brittany grinned and bounced over to the bed, picking up the album she had discarded and looking at it. “Santana loves this CD,” Brittany said, her nose wrinkling as if she didn’t agree with the sentiment._

_Quinn laughed. “Yeah, it was out when I got up here.”_

_Throwing the CD back down, Brittany turned to look at Quinn. “So why are you hiding up here?”_

_She scrambled her brain to try and find a decent excuse. “It was hot downstairs.”_

_That actually_ was _part of the reason she left Santana’s party to hide away in the girl’s bedroom, but it wasn’t completely honest and she could tell Brittany saw right through it._

_“You mean because Allie Perkins showed up,” Brittany replied, crossing her arms and cocking her hip out._

_Her face felt hot all of a sudden and her eyes went wide at being found out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Quinn denied._

_Allie Perkins was two years older than them - a friend of Santana’s from track camp - and had hung out with the three of them a few times over the summer. Quinn had spent nearly all those occasions trying to ignore the urge she had to stare at Allie’s long, brown hair or the runner’s legs the girl seemed to enjoy exposing at any opportunity._

_Brittany hummed in a way that was probably supposed to sound encouraging but ending up coming out more admonishing than anything._

_“You like her,” Brittany said matter-of-factly._

_“She’s nice,” Quinn replied, not liking the direction Brittany was going._

_“She’s pretty,” Brittany corrected, grinning._

_Heat flashed through her face again as she looked away from her friend. It was silent for a long moment, Brittany just grinning at Quinn and Quinn looking anywhere but at Brittany’s knowing, blue eyes until she finally spoke, her voice a low, confused mumble. “She’s a girl.”_

_“So?” Brittany asked, head tilted to the side._

_Quinn sighed and shook her head. “You wouldn’t understand.”_

_A quick giggle burst out of Brittany and Quinn snapped her head up to look at her. Her friend was still smiling, clearly amused and made a step towards Quinn._

_Strong hands grabbed Quinn’s hips and pulled her closer. “I probably understand better than you do.”_

_It probably shouldn’t have been possible for Quinn’s eyes to get any wider, but they did, stretched out in surprise and confusion as Brittany pulled them closer together._

_“What are you doing?”_

_“Fixing you,” Brittany replied. “You need to stop being so scared about it.”_

_Quinn gulped as Brittany ducked her head down and nearly jumped with the sudden realization that Brittany was going to_ kiss her.

_This was bad. Really, really bad. For so many reasons. One of them, probably the most important one, was her hot-tempered friend one story below them, probably wondering where her girlfriend and best friend were._

_“I’m not scared,” she whispered, nearly going cross-eyed as she focused on Brittany’s lips as they seemed to be inching closer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”_

_Brittany was undeniably attractive in that unassuming way that made her stand out in a crowd. Quinn always thought that about her friend in a benign sort of way, distant and detached from being anything other than an impartial observation. But right now, with all the confusion in her head and the skirt Brittany was wearing and the way her hair fell forward, she was having trouble reminding herself of the important details. Details like Brittany was a girl, her best friend, and dating her other best friend, a girl, dating her best friend, and also_ a girl.

_“It’s okay to like what you like, Quinn,” Brittany replied, pressing their lips together before Quinn could protest._

_Surprise, shock, and warmth shot through her like a bullet and she nearly stumbled backwards. Brittany’s lips were soft and warm and when Quinn recovered enough to actually involve herself in the kiss she could taste strawberry vodka and diet soda._

_Her brain kind of short circuited and all those warnings about how Brittany was a girl and how this was a really bad idea and how Santana was definitely going to punch her kind of flew out the window._

_Kissing Brittany wasn’t all that different from the boys Quinn had kissed. Okay, well, no. It was different. Brittany pressed against Quinn in different places and her face was soft and her hands small and long hair brushed against Quinn’s face. It was all kinds of different but it was also_ nice.

_Brittany pushed forward again and this time Quinn did stumble backwards, falling on the bed with Brittany and landing on something hard and plastic, a loud crack resounding through the room._

_They broke apart and Brittany’s eyebrows came together as she tried to locate the source of the sound. Quinn reached a hand under her back and pulled out the now broken jewel case of Santana’s favorite CD._

_Brittany’s eyes went wide with realization and she cupped a hand over her mouth, unsuccessfully stifling laughter as she picked herself off of Quinn and stood up._

_It took staring at the cracked CD, completely smashed - case, disc and all - for Quinn to actually comprehend what just happened. She had just kissed Brittany. She had just kissed her best friend, her other best friend’s girlfriend._

_And she kind of liked it. At least in the,_ hey girls aren’t so bad _and_ Britt’s a good kisser kind of way.

_“Santana’s going to kill me,” Quinn groaned, flopping backwards on the bed and throwing a hand over her eyes._

_Brittany hummed like she agreed before pulling Quinn up by her arm and tugging her towards the door._

_“Come on, now that you’re over your crisis we can rejoin the party,” Brittany said._

_“What do you mean over my crisis?!” Quinn exclaimed. “Now I just have a new crisis!”_

_The tall girl stopped, took a deep breath and looked at Quinn. “I love Santana,” she stated._

_“Yeah,” Quinn said, slightly confused at her friend’s obviousness. “I noticed.”_

_“Right,” Brittany agreed looking adorably serious. “I kiss her. Like, a lot. And other stuff too.”_

_“Yeah, Britt,” Quinn drew out, looking at her skeptically. “I know.”_

_“Is something wrong with me?” Brittany tilted her head to the side, the question innocent and open as she observed Quinn blankly._

_Her first instinct, the instinct when she first found out about her two best friends kissing and doing…other things, is to say yes, that something is definitely wrong, that it’s not the natural order of things. But she stamped that feeling down because, really, they were her two best friends. Anyone that watched them together could never call it_ wrong.

_“Of course not,” Quinn answered._

_Brittany stepped in close to Quinn again, still holding her wrist and bringing her other hand to stroke hair off of Quinn’s forehead. “There’s nothing wrong with you either,” she whispered. “It’s okay to like girls, Quinn.”_

_Denial was right there, the same words she had been telling herself for a long time now as she watched Brittany and Santana publicly grope each other and tried to avoid noticing how short Allie Perkins’ skirt was that day._

_But here with Brittany, for the first time, Quinn didn’t feel like lying anymore. To anyone._

_“Don’t tell anyone,” she breathed._

_Brittany pressed a warm kiss against Quinn’s forehead and pulled the girl in for a hug. “Let’s go back to the party.”_

_Quinn nodded._

_\--_

_Santana was standing in the kitchen, mixing drinks and fiddling with the controls of a new music system she had set up last week. She threw an exasperated eye roll at both of them when they walked in._

_“Where the hell have you been?” Santana asked in Quinn’s direction._

_“Quinn’s all better now,” Brittany answered and Quinn turned to glare at her friend. So much for keeping a secret._

_She expected Santana to look confused and ask her what the hell Brittany was talking about but instead her friend just looked relieved as she tugged Brittany closer and handed her a red plastic cup._

_“Good,” she said to Quinn._

_Now it was Quinn’s turn to be confused again as she stared at her two friends, both grinning at her._

_“You both are crazy,” Quinn said finally, shaking her head and reaching for the cup Santana was handing her._

_Brittany bounded over and wrapped her arms around Quinn’s neck. “You’d be lost without us,” she said, laughing happily and bouncing to the music._

_Quinn let out a deep exhale and stared at Santana, letting her body get tossed around slightly by Brittany’s dancing. “Yeah, I probably would,” she laughed._

_Santana smiled, took a sip of her drink and moved towards the crowd of people grinding to the beat in the living room._

_“Let’s dance,” Santana threw over her shoulder._

_Brittany jumped excitedly and pulled Quinn with her._

_She spent the rest of the night letting Brittany manhandle her into new dance moves as Santana laughed at them. It took a few more rum and cokes (more rum than coke with the way Santana mixed them), but she finally stopped trying to ignore just how good Allie Perkin’s legs looked in her skirt._  
  
\--

Around six that evening, her phone rings and Quinn practically drops the book she’s pulling off her shelf. Fumbling it around in her hands, she manages to stumble to her desk, pull her cell out of her briefcase and flip it open.

“Quinn Fabray,” she clips out into the phone.

“Where are you?” Quinn recognizes the angry, biting tone of Santana almost right away.

“Santana?”

“I need a drink, Fabray,” Santana says, the sound of rushing cars and rain coming through the phone. “Where are you?”

“At work,” Quinn answers.

“I’m coming up,” Santana replies, hanging the phone up and leaving Quinn to listen to the repeating sound of a dial tone.

About ten minutes later, a soaking wet Santana Lopez is pushing open the door to her office and striding towards her desk. Looks like the hope of no rain tonight had been futile.

“Let’s go,” Santana barks out, coming to a stop in front of Quinn’s desk and placing both palms on its surface.

“It’s only six,” Quinn replies, not looking up from the file she’s scribbling across.

“Yeah, I should be halfway to drunk right now,” Santana shoots back, leaning towards Quinn and slapping her hand on the desk. “Fabray, let’s go.”

“Jeez,” Quinn says, looking up and tugging her glasses off. “What happened to you?”

Dark, wet hair is plastered across Santana’s forehead and her eyes are narrowed, pain crinkling the skin around them.

“You showed me that stupid fucking case about Brittany which I took from Rutherford and fucking Finn Hudson and I went over to her stupid fucking apartment where she’s living with that stupid fucking dance teacher Tina who is out walking _my_ fucking dog and it’s all your fucking fault and you owe me a damn drink. Now.”

Anger blasts out of Santana’s expression and Quinn feels herself jerk back, guilt seeping into her bones even though she knows Santana’s not _actually_ angry at her. Part of her thinks maybe Santana has a right to be. Then again, Quinn thinks, bitterness threatening to break through, Santana could have stopped Brittany from leaving, she just…decided not to.

It’s quiet then, Santana’s harsh breathing and the rain outside the only noise in the whole office. Quinn stands slowly, picks her glasses up and folds them closed, sticking them in her briefcase before starting to collect her files.

“Okay,” she says, moving to grab her coat. “Let’s go. I’ll call Rach on the way.”

\--

Rick’s is practically empty when they get there, the low buzz of music playing from the old jukebox in the corner the only life in the whole place. Joe comes walking out from the back room, a towel slung over his shoulder and a box of glassware in his hands, the glasses clinking against each other with each of his steps. He sets it down on a table and walks behind the bar as they get near, smiling at them as they take their places on two stools.

He opens his mouth to greet them, but before he can speak seems to notice Santana. His jaw snaps shut as he reaches under the counter, throwing a knowing look at Quinn. Before she can say anything, two shot glasses are in front of them, and Joe’s twisting the top off a bottle of top shelf tequila Quinn keeps behind the bar, setting it in front of them and walking away.

Santana reaches out and grabs the bottle, pouring it to the brim in her own glass before doing the same to Quinn’s. “I love this place,” she says.

Quinn pulls her glass towards her. “So you took the case,” she starts.

“Yup,” Santana replies, picking up her glass and taking a large sip, half the liquid disappearing.

“That was stupid, S,” Quinn continues, taking a much smaller sip of her own tequila.

“Yup,” Santana agrees, swallowing the rest of her drink and reaching for the bottle again.

Quinn raises an eyebrow. “Slow down,” she commands. “If you puke on me I will smack you.”

Santana turns a glare at her. “I saw Brittany today, you get that, right? I saw _Brittany_ ,” she repeats.

It tugs at her heart, the way Santana looks and the memories of Brittany flashing across her brain. It took a long time for her to get used to seeing Santana without the blonde, months really. Even now, after six of them, it’s still strange to see Santana alone and she doesn’t think she’ll ever get totally used to it. The three of them, so swiftly cut to two. It still feels slightly unnatural, the way she’d imagine losing a limb would feel.

Brittany was her best friend after Santana. Brittany had been around since the beginning, as early as grade school and it hurt to have her just walk away, leave their lives as quickly as she appeared. It’s painful but she knows it’s only a fraction of what Santana’s feeling. Santana who had been so attached to Brittany her entire life, bordering on co-dependency.

There are things she wants to say to Santana, things she wants to tell her and sense she wants to smack into her, but all the words get mixed together and nothing ends up coming out.

Instead, she plucks the bottle out of Santana’s hands and pours the liquid in the glass herself, setting it back on the bar with a dull thud. Then she slides her own shot of tequila towards Santana and raises a finger at Joe, standing at the end of the bar wiping down glasses.

“What are you doing?” Santana asks.

“Getting a beer. One of us has to find our way home,” she answers.

Santana seems to accept that, tugging the other shot of tequila towards her and throwing it back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as Joe sets a bottle of beer in front of Quinn. There’s something about the way Santana’s acting, the way she’s staring straight ahead and they way her eyes blink slowly as if she’s not really focusing on what’s in front of her.

“What else happened?” Quinn asks because it all suddenly feels suspicious. Santana doesn’t really get sad or scared or worried. Santana gets pissed, all her emotions get angry. But Quinn can see her friend’s fists clenching on top of the wood of the bar and the wrinkles in her forehead showing a seed of fear, of doubt.

“What do you mean? I fucking told you,” Santana says. “I saw Brittany in her goddamn perfect life without me.”

Shaking her head, Quinn tips her beer against her lips. “So why aren’t you out with Puck right now punching frat boys at that college bar across town?”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Santana doesn’t look at her, just pours more tequila into her glass.

It’s clear the direct tactic isn’t going to work - the agitation all over Santana’s face a good indication - so Quinn switches gears, taking another pull of her beer as Santana pours more tequila. “Get any interesting hits tonight?”

Quinn sees it work, sees the way Santana’s leg jumps in surprise and her hands clench around the shot glass tighter. A barking, bitter laugh comes out of Santana.

“Some dancer over at the nightclub on 9th got popped,” her friend comments, almost nonchalantly.

“Oh yeah?” Quinn twists her beer bottle around on the bar, observing her friend with narrowed eyes.

“Yeah,” Santana says, pouring more tequila down her throat.

She reaches for the small dish of peanuts in front of her and pulls it towards them. “Got a good lead?”

“She was blonde,” Santana mumbles under her breath and Quinn can almost hear the tequila starting to take root in her friend’s blood system.

“What?”

“Why can’t I just move on? I just want to stop thinking about it,” Santana says, staring at a spot behind the bar for a long moment before shooting more tequila.

It’s more clear then, what’s eating away at Santana. Understanding her friend in a way few people ever do, Quinn reaches a hand out and sets it on Santana’s shoulder, squeezing briefly.

“Britt’s okay, San. She’s happy and she’s okay.” It’s not totally the truth; Quinn can’t imagine Brittany actually being happy without Santana, can barely imagine one without the other even after six months. Even now, when she sees Santana, there’s a moment of instinct that she has to fight to control, a moment that’s hard to resist where she almost asks Santana where Brittany is, almost looks over her shoulder hoping to see a tall blonde with clear blue eyes.

“Yeah,” Santana agrees, chuckling darkly. “Without me. Without you,” she says, turning to face her. “Without us. Brittany’s got this whole life without us.”

Quinn takes a long pull of her beer and doesn’t say anything.

\--  
  
 _Rachel bowed, front and center on stage, and the audience erupted in applause, the sound deafening and excited and Quinn felt a proud grin spread across her lips. Brittany jumped up and down, hooting and catcalling as Rachel bowed again before stepping off stage._

_“She was good,” Brittany said, grinning as she turned at Quinn._

_“Yeah,” Quinn agreed, smoothing out her playbill and staring down at Rachel’s face on the cover._

_They’d been dating for just a few months and it took a little to get used to realize how accomplished Rachel was in the world of musical theater._

_Usually she’d drag Santana to the shows but tonight she was working a longer shift and couldn’t make it. Brittany, good friend that she was, agreed to go along in her place. Quinn was starting to think that maybe Brittany was a better choice anyway because there was certainly less stifled laughter and eye rolling throughout the whole production._

_“Come on, let’s go see if we can catch her backstage,” Quinn said, standing up and walking out with the rest of their row._

_They made their way backstage, through a few hallways and past security and smiling when they remembered her, until they got to a door with a large star and the name Rachel Berry emblazoned across it._

_“Cool,” Brittany breathed. Quinn felt a strange pride flow through her again._

_The door flung open after Quinn rapped her knuckles against it to reveal a flushed Rachel, still in costume but her face washed clean of the layers of makeup it usually sported._

_“You came!” Rachel exclaimed, tugging them inside and shutting the door._

_“Of course,” Quinn said, smiling at her girlfriend._

_“Thanks for the tickets, Rachel!” Brittany interjected, practically bouncing over to the shorter girl and wrapping her in a big hug. Quinn laughed at Rachel’s shocked expression, knowing the girl was much more used the tepid reception she’d get from Santana – crossed arms and a begrudging_ it was okay, I guess.

_“No problem, Brittany,” Rachel said as they broke apart. “I’m glad you both could make it.”_

_“It was really good,” Brittany continued, nodding solemnly. “You’re really good.”_

_Rachel beamed. “I am, aren’t I?”_

_Quinn kept laughing, Brittany nodded._

_“We just wanted to say hi,” Quinn said, stepping forward. “I know you probably have to go. There are a lot of people at the stage door.”_

_Nodding, Rachel moved closer to Quinn as well. “Thanks for coming,” she replied._

_The brunette arched upwards on her feet, pressing a long kiss to Quinn’s lips and she would have forgotten Brittany was standing right there if the other girl hadn’t started giggling at them._

_They broke off, Rachel tugging Quinn’s bottom lip with her teeth appealingly before they stepped away from each other._

_“Call me later?” Quinn got out, putting a hand on Rachel’s hip._

_“Yeah, I will,” the shorter girl agreed, head bobbing up and down rapidly._

_Brittany giggled at them but all Quinn could do was grin._

_\--_

_Thankfully, it wasn’t raining that night as they walked the two blocks to the subway that would take them back towards their apartments. The sky was dark and cloudy but the streets were dry as they strolled along them and found their way to the station._

_“I like her,” Brittany said out of the blue as they walked down the steps to the underground._

_Quinn turned her head to the side. “Yeah?”_

_It struck her for probably the millionth time in her life how different Brittany was from Santana. Where Santana was a mess of subtext and hidden meanings, Brittany was always straightforward, brutally honest in a way that sometimes startled people. It was like God forgot to give her a filter when he made her._

_“Yeah, she’s awesome, Quinn. Her voice is like,” Brittany started, bringing her hands up to her ears and shaking them. “Crazy.”_

_“Yeah,” Quinn agreed, chuckling softly and looking down._

_“I’m glad you’re dating her,” Brittany continued. “We get free tickets.”_

_They stepped up to the platform to wait for the train. “Me too,” Quinn replied, still laughing._

_“And you’re happy,” Brittany said. “I’m happy you’re happy.”_

_It was kind of weird, to hear Brittany’s perspective on things. It wasn’t that she needed anyone’s approval but it felt nice regardless. It was something that’d never come from her parents, this much she knew, and getting Santana to say something nice about anyone that wasn’t Quinn or Brittany (and even that was a stretch) was like pulling teeth._

_Brittany was her oldest friend, family in all the ways that counted and just to have her so openly approve of Rachel sent warmth through her stomach._

_Rachel felt right to her, in a way few other things had in her life and even after only a few months of dating she knew that she wanted the other girl to stick around for a long time. It was absurd and irrational and so un-Quinn of her to think but she couldn’t help it. It was sappy and sometimes Quinn hated herself for it, but she would look at Rachel and feel like that’s all she wanted, all she needed, like Rachel was her future._

_And it was big and scary but it was awesome at the same time, and the feeling she got when Rachel kissed her or held her hand made her want to do crazy, ridiculously sappy things that Santana would smack her for._

_Which is why she could never tell Santana about all this stuff. Santana would just glower and roll her eyes and make some scathing comment about midgets or freakshows and Quinn would end up having to punch her in the arm._

_Standing there with Brittany, as a warm gust of air blew past them and their train rolled in, made her feel free in a way she didn’t feel very often._

_“I think I love her,” Quinn admitted, soft and low. She hadn’t told anyone – there weren’t many people she could tell and just getting it out there, speaking it out loud felt like a huge weight lifted off her._

_They stepped on the train and grabbed onto the ceiling to floor poles as the doors closed. “She loves you too,” Brittany said, leaning in conspiratorially towards Quinn. With a lump in her throat, Quinn recognized that Brittany filtered out the ‘think’ part of the statement. “I can tell,” Brittany stated and a sudden rush of affection for her friend flew through Quinn._

_The train started to move and they were silent after that, Quinn enjoying the unsteady rhythm of her heartbeat as she thought about Rachel. She hoped Brittany was right. She was falling for this girl, really fast and really hard._

_Brittany looped her arm through Quinn’s and shifted closer, pressing a kiss to Quinn’s temple and smiling. “She does, trust me.”_

_Quinn quirked her lips up and bumped her shoulder into Brittany’s. “Thanks, B.”_  
  
\--

“Give me back my fucking handcuffs!”

Quinn gives a deep sigh and tries to ignore the looks of the few people walking their dogs in the middle of the night (New York is a strange city sometimes), and steers Santana further down her street.

“I don’t have your handcuffs, S,” she mutters, prompting Santana to snort and stop dead in her tracks to turn and face Quinn. The other woman drunkenly waves her finger around in her face, her eyes glazed over and wild.

“You _always_ take my handcuffs. If your midget sidekick isn’t satisfied by normal shit like normal fucking people, _buy your own damn handcuffs!_ It’s not hard!”

Quinn blinks rapidly at Santana before she shakes her head and starts moving them again, trying to ignore the many memories of Santana’s handcuffs floating through her mind.

“Where’s my gun?” Santana suddenly asks, breaking away from Quinn and flailing around.

Quinn rolls her eyes and takes a step towards her friend, tugging her towards the steps. “What do you need that for?”

“To shoot someone, what the fuck else do you do with a gun?” Santana answers.

“I took it,” Quinn replies, trying to maneuver Santana up the stairs.

“Give it back!” Santana exclaims, eyes wide.

“Let’s go, S. The last thing you need right now is your gun,” Quinn says, finally able to get Santana up the stairs and to the front entrance.

It takes much longer than usual to get Santana in her building and Quinn nearly loses her grip on her friend twice on their way there. But, soon enough, they get through the front door, Quinn kicking it closed behind her and moving to the living room to drop Santana on the couch.

There’s a rustling behind her as Santana throws her jacket off and works the shirt off underneath it so Quinn goes to the lockbox they keep in the corner and throws Santana’s badge and gun inside, locking it and turning around to see her friend half undressed and passed out on the couch.

Shaking her head and chuckling under her breath she walks over and tugs Santana’s shoes off, pushing the rest of Santana’s body on the couch. Her chuckling cuts off abruptly at the soft, unconscious sound of Santana mumbling Brittany’s name in her sleep.

She swallows and throws a blanket over her friend before walking out of the living room and finding her way to her bedroom.

Her chest tightens painfully as she makes her way through darkened hallways and rooms and she struggles to push the pain out of her brain – Santana’s and her own.

The bedroom is dark and cool when she gets there and she can make out Rachel’s bundled form on her side of the bed. A long breath escapes her and she just kind of stares at the bed for a little bit, the patter of rain hitting the window across the room lulling her into inaction.

A few moments later she gets a hold of herself and starts to strip, dropping clothing on the floor and shuffling towards the bed, sliding under warm covers until she’s pressed against Rachel, her front against her wife’s back and a hand sliding over a bare stomach.

Rachel shifts and turns slightly, greeting Quinn with a sleepy smile. “Hi,” the brunette croaks out, leaning up to peck Quinn on the cheek.

“Hi,” Quinn repeats, smiling slightly before burrowing into Rachel’s shoulder. “Santana’s staying the night.”

She feels Rachel nod in recognition, lips pressing against her cheek again. Quinn’s palm rests flat against Rachel’s stomach as her nose buries further into Rachel’s neck and pain and exhaustion sweep through her on a shaky exhale.

“Hey,” Rachel murmurs, a hand coming up to grip in blonde hair. “You okay?”

All Quinn can do is shake her head and swallow. Rachel wraps her other arm around her, turning over completely and pulling Quinn further into her embrace, mumbling incoherent affection into her hair until Quinn falls asleep.

\--  
  
 _When Brittany left, Quinn didn’t have any time to deal with her own feelings, Santana’s depression took up too much time. How could she tell her devastated friend that she was in agony too?_

_And then there was the part she couldn’t tell Santana under any circumstances, the part where Brittany showed up at her doorstep, just a few days after she left._

_Rachel answered the door, but Quinn could hear the surprised gasp from the kitchen. When she rounded the corner to the front door, Rachel and Brittany were just pulling away from a hug._

_After two seconds of staring at Brittany’s form in shock, Quinn finally reacted, pulling the blonde in and glaring at her. “Where the hell have you been?”_

_“I’m staying with Mike,” Brittany said, looking sheepish and sad. Quinn glanced over to see Rachel walking towards the kitchen, leaving the two blondes alone._

_“Brittany,” Quinn started, still holding on to her friend’s wrist._

_“I’m staying with Mike, until I get my own place,” she repeated, interrupting Quinn._

_It was hard to believe. The idea of Brittany leaving Santana spoken aloud like that, like it was just as easy as buying a new apartment. “Why are you here?”_

_Brittany scuffed her toe against the floor and looked down. “Don’t tell Santana I was here.”_

_“Brittany,” Quinn said again, stepping closer and lowering her voice. She hated this feeling, the heavy pressure of tension between the three of them that they’d never experienced. Their friendship was almost seamless, too good to be true really. It shouldn’t have worked as well as it did – Santana and Brittany and then Quinn, the should-be third wheel._

_But they were always so good about figuring it all out. Until now, when things didn’t make sense anymore, when Brittany was asking her to keep things from Santana and Santana was holed away in her apartment, snuggled up to a bottle of scotch most likely._

_“You need to call Santana,” Quinn said, her breath feeling shaky and unsteady as she stared at Brittany._

_The other girl lifted her head and looked at Quinn, pain etched in the skin around Brittany’s eyes that made Quinn’s heart skip a beat. It all felt so final in that moment, so bleak, like a chapter of her life was ending whether or not she wanted it to._

_“If she wanted me, she’d come after me,” Brittany replied, her voice nearly a whisper._

_Her throat felt dry and thick as she swallowed but she couldn’t find the words to deny what Brittany had said. The image of Santana at the bar was still present in her mind. The way her friend had looked so defeated, so resigned like she knew it was coming and was content to just accept her fate. Santana had no plans to chase after Brittany and right then, staring into sad, blue eyes, Quinn felt an irrational urge to smack Santana. Hard._

_Instead, she tugged Brittany closer, wrapping both her arms around her and squeezed tightly. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered into the skin of Brittany’s shoulder. Hating how broken it all felt, how her whole life was shifting and reforming. The rug was being swept right out from under her._

_A stuttered exhale left her friend as long arms wrapped around her and clutched at her back. “Me too.”_

_Brittany left a few moments later and it was the last time they saw each other for six months._  
  
\--

Sunlight breaking through the clouds outside hits Quinn straight in her eyes, the warmth and light forcing her to wake up much earlier than she really wants to. Her head is pillowed on Rachel’s chest, her leg wrapped around a toned calf and she can feel Rachel’s hand still clutched in Quinn’s hair.

She shifts upward, reaching up to disentangle Rachel’s hand from her hair and her wife wakes up with the motion, eyes wide and alert almost immediately.

“Morning,” Quinn greets, her voice husky with sleep.

“Hey,” Rachel drawls, twisting her hands above her head and stretching out her whole body, arching up into Quinn in just about the most distracting manner possible.

Heat floods through Quinn’s body and suddenly all that emotional exhaustion from last night drains out of her, replaced by deep affection and warm arousal settling in her gut.

Tension droops out of Rachel’s body as she flops back onto the bed and smiles at Quinn, reaching out to trace an eyebrow with her fingertip. “How are you doing?”

When Quinn smiles it’s wide and easy, genuine in a way she hadn’t felt last night. Walking up tangled in Rachel often did that to her. “Fantastic,” she answers. “Fantastic.”

It gets an answering grin out of Rachel who runs her hand through the tangles in Quinn’s hair and bites her lip. The gesture is half adorable, half sexy and Quinn feels a jolt in her heart at the sight.

Her hand slides under the covers and palms Rachel’s thigh, sliding back up over soft skin as she moves further on top of her wife, her leg settling in between Rachel’s.

Rachel arches her neck when Quinn bends down and presses her lips against the skin of her collarbone, following a path up to her jawbone slowly.

Her thumbs are hooked in the sides of Rachel’s underwear when her wife tugs her head away so they can look at each other.

“Santana’s here,” Rachel says, her voice low and deep in a way that makes Quinn want to keep it that way forever.

“So?” Of all the things that would put a stop to this, and that’s a short list, Santana being in the near vicinity is not one of them. In fact, that’s usually all the more reason to continue rather than stop. Annoy her best friend and have awesome sex with her wife? Pretty much par for the course.

Rachel smirks and wrinkles her nose. “Good point,” she says.

Quinn chuckles, her hand tracing the underwire of Rachel’s bra. Her eyes shift downward, observing the way their bodies are pressed together before looking back up, taking in the sight of dark hair spread out on the pillow. “Have I mentioned today how gorgeous you are?”

“We just woke up,” Rachel replies, her hand running down Quinn’s back before scratching her nails back upward.

“You’re gorgeous,” Quinn intones pressing her thigh against Rachel and feeling her breath hitch at the gasp it gets out of her wife.

“Yeah?” Rachel asks, arching up to press wet, open-mouthed kisses against Quinn’s neck.

“Yeah,” Quinn gulps.

“Show me,” Rachel whispers against Quinn’s ear, hot breath sending a shiver down her spine.

Quinn smiles wickedly, pulls down Rachel’s underwear with her thumbs and proceeds to do just that.

\--

Quinn wakes up for the second time that morning about two hours after the first time. The sheets next to her are cold and empty when she spreads her hand across them and she shoots upward in bed, trying to locate Rachel in the room.

When she realizes, through the cobwebs of sleepiness still in her brain, that her wife has clearly left the bedroom, she reaches for her discarded underwear and tank top. Tugging them on, she makes her way out of the room and heads towards the kitchen.

The sound of singing puts a smile on her face, as does the smell of coffee. Sure enough, Rachel is standing in their kitchen, dressed only in her underwear and singing absently as she pours coffee into a cup.

Quinn comes up behind her and slides her arms around Rachel’s waist, snuggling up to her and pressing her lips against a bare shoulder. “Did you forget to put clothes on this morning?”

“I was warm,” Rachel answers, giggling as she sets her mug down and turns to face Quinn. “Is that a problem?”

Quinn looks down between them, presses Rachel against the counter and laughs. “Nope, no problem.”

Rachel returns the laugh and reaches upward, pulling Quinn into a kiss by a hand at her neck. The moment feels light and happy and Quinn struggles to remember what felt so dark and hopeless about last night. It’s hard to think with Rachel’s hips against her own and her tongue tracing her lips and when Quinn’s hands reach down to grab her ass and pull her even closer, Rachel laughs into the kiss and Quinn feels lighter than air.

“Ugh, don’t you two like ever stop? I’m going to have to bleach my brain.” Santana’s voice breaks through the kitchen but Quinn can’t find the will to pull away from her wife. Instinct guides her and she answers Santana in the manner she has hundreds of times in the same scenario. Fight fire with fire.

“Shut up, Lopez,” she snaps out, her eyes never leaving Rachel. Quinn pushes her hips forward and smiles at the way it makes Rachel bite her lip. “You’re just pissed because you haven’t been laid in months.

If she had been paying attention, she would have noticed Santana’s glare, the sneer Santana’s throwing in her direction and she probably would have realized how insensitive she’s being. But Rachel’s got her nails against Quinn’s scalp and rational thought is pretty far from her brain.

“Whatever, Fabray,” Santana shoots back. “Just tell your midget to put a goddamn shirt on, will you?”

Defense of Rachel is instinct too so she pulls away this time and takes a menacing step towards her best friend. “Santana,” she warns, but Rachel grabs her wrist and pulls her back.

“It’s okay, baby,” Rachel whispers. The brunette fists the front of Quinn’s tank top and pulls her down, pressing their lips together long and hot before breaking away and striding out of the kitchen.

What started out as a halfway decent morning was turning into just opposite as dark reality punctured back into Quinn’s life. The memories of Santana at the bar last night and all the craziness surrounding the whole situation push back into her brain and really, all Quinn can feel right now is irritation. Irritation at Santana for making this whole thing one big mess.

If she had gone after Brittany that first night, if she had chased after her, none of them would be here right now. Santana made her choice. She needs to learn how to fucking live with it. Maybe then, Quinn can start to get over it too.

Santana moves to get coffee so Quinn just stares at her, cocks her hip out and arches an eyebrow at her friend.

“What?”

“When are you going to stop doing this?” Quinn asks, getting more sick of Santana’s attitude by the second.

“Stop what? Harassing your wife?” Santana replies. “Because if that’s what you’re waiting for, don’t hold your breath.”

It’s kind of amusing for a second, because yeah, Quinn gets naturally irritated at the way Santana antagonizes Rachel, but she understands there’s more to that relationship than meets the eye. She knows that Santana will probably poke at Rachel like a kid on the playground until they’re old and grey.

It’s not so much _that_ that’s bothering her right now. It’s the bigger picture, the reason Santana’s attacks have more bite these days, the reason her friend spends more nights passed out on their couch than at her own apartment.

“No,” Quinn denies. “I know you too well Santana. I'm talking about coming over here and getting blitzed because you're still depressed about Britt leaving. It's been six months. You need to stop."

Santana walks out of the kitchen with her coffee at that, just as Quinn expects. “Ugh, I don’t need to hear this,” she says.

Quinn follows her, the urge to get her point across to her friend thrumming through her. “Yeah, you do need to hear it,” she argues. “Look, I know it’s hard-“

Santana cuts her off with a firm, “No,” as she opens the lockbox and retrieves her gun and badge from inside. “You don’t know,” she bites back. “You’ll never know. So just shut the fuck up about it, okay?”

“Santana,” she starts, stepping forward and feeling her annoyance mix with sympathy in a manner both confusing and unsettling.

“If Berry left? Tomorrow,” Santana argues, straightening and looking at Quinn with wide, blank eyes. “If she walked out tomorrow and never came back. Would you be over it in six fucking months?”

Pain makes her chest squeeze at the thought and she can feel her face twisting to reflect the feeling. Then again, she thinks, if Rachel walked out Quinn would run after her. Would run across the country if that’s what it took to get her back. She swears to herself never to make the same mistakes Santana has.

Still, just the thought that Rachel would leave, that she would want to, makes Quinn’s knees feel weak, like they’re incapable of holding up the rest of her body. For a brief second she realizes that maybe the reason that Santana didn’t run after Brittany wasn’t because she didn’t want to, but because her legs were too weak to work.

Rachel strides back into the room before she can say anything else, this time a long shirt Quinn recognizes as her own covering her body. “Whatcha talking about?”

“Nothing,” Quinn says, darting an arm out to wrap around Rachel’s waist and pull her close. She presses a long kiss to Rachel’s head and closes her eyes, tries to block out a future filled with pain and darkness.

“Yeah,” Santana says, before walking out of the room and out of the apartment. “That’s what I thought.”

Rachel pulls back and looks up at Quinn as the door slamming shut resounds through their living room.

“What was that about?”

Their grandfather clock chimes loudly as Quinn bends down and presses their lips together, tasting the strange combination of toothpaste and coffee on Rachel’s lips.

“Don’t ever leave me,” Quinn pleads. “Please.”

“Baby,” Rachel coos, wrapping her arms around Quinn’s waist and pressing in closer. “What’s wrong? Did Santana say something?”

Shaking her head, Quinn just presses her forehead against Rachel’s and repeats the plea, whispers the words between them.

Rachel chuckles, but there’s confusion laced in the sound, before releasing her left arm from around Quinn’s waist and waggling her fingers in front of Quinn’s face, a large diamond on her fourth finger.

“You’re kind of stuck with me,” she says. “Remember that thing where we signed papers and made vows and you ripped that pre-nuptial agreement your father had drawn up in half?”

Quinn presses her forehead harder against Rachel’s as her eyes focus on the diamond ring.

“Yeah,” she breathes. Her heart gets it. Her heart sees the ring on Rachel’s finger and feels how permanent Rachel is like something tangible between her ribs. Her heart isn’t worried.

But her head, her brain full of Santana’s depression and too many classes and cases on divorces and lover’s quarrels thinks differently, feels like their rings, their vows, their contracts aren’t enough to stop her whole life from slipping through her fingers. Every moment of happiness, every ounce of hope she ever feels is fleeting, like it’ll all break in just a few moments.

Rachel brings her hand back down and settles it on Quinn’s hip, tracing the bone.

“I made a promise, Quinn,” Rachel whispers. “I keep my promises.”

Quinn nods. Swallows. “I know,” she croaks, picking her head up and looking at her wife.

“I love you, you know,” Rachel says, a grin tugging at her lips.

“Yeah,” Quinn says, unable to resist smiling too. Because above any and all doubt, her heart trumps her brain on this one. It’s something she can’t ever not believe in. “I know.”

“Good,” Rachel says with a nod. “Now,” she says, her voice changing from soothing to seductive. “Take me back to bed.”

A laugh bubbles up from Quinn as she turns them around, backing Rachel up towards the couch and throwing her on it.

“I said bed,” Rachel chastises, a glare she doesn’t mean on her face.

“Too far away,” Quinn says, settling her body on top of Rachel’s and pressing their lips together, silencing all further protests.


	3. Part Three

“So Brittany’s back,” Rachel says, as they walk up the street towards Santana’s apartment.

Santana had shocked Quinn by calling earlier that evening to invite them over to dinner. To invite them over to dinner with Santana and _Brittany._ Quinn’s having trouble wrapping her brain around the whole thing.

“Yes,” Quinn answers, readjusting the six packs in her hand and tangling her fingers with Rachel’s.

“And she’s staying in Santana’s apartment,” the brunette continues.

Quinn nods, turning them towards the glass doors of the building entrance. “Yup.”

“Brittany’s back,” Rachel repeats.

“Rach,” Quinn interrupts with a chuckle as they make their way to the elevator. “You need to process this before we get there.”

Rachel looks up at her. “Have _you_ processed it?”

“Processed what?” Quinn asks, letting go of Rachel’s hand to punch the button for Santana’s floor.

“ Brittany’s back,” Rachel emphasizes. “She’s going to be in that apartment when we get there.”

“Yeah,” Quinn says, leaning against the back of the elevator. “I know.”

“Your best friend,” Rachel clarifies. “That you haven’t seen in six months. You’re about to see her.”

That’s about when Quinn realizes she _hasn’t_ really processed what was going on, that when Santana answers the door, Brittany would be there, something she hadn’t experienced in six months. She’s going to see her friend again, their Unholy Trinity will once again be complete and she can feel her eyes widening as shock bleeds through her.

Rachel laughs as the doors ding open. “There it is.”

They step out and Rachel pauses, turns and halts Quinn with a hand on her arm.

“Okay,” the shorter girl says. “You have sixty seconds to deal with this, then we need to reboot and knock on that door.” She points towards a door at the end of the hallway, the one that used to be Santana _and_ Brittany’s then became just Santana’s and now apparently is back to its former self. Sort of.

She lets her gaze linger on the numbers by the door as she tries to imagine what will greet her inside.

“Okay, time’s up,” Rachel chimes, pulling Quinn by the hand towards the door. She stumbles forward with the tug before recovering and walking forward, glaring at Rachel when she starts laughing.

“It’ll be fine,” the brunette says, her fingers warm between Quinn’s as she reaches forward and knocks on the door.

Quinn swallows and opens her mouth to speak but the door opens before she can get any words out, revealing Santana on the other side, staring at her with wide eyes, a similar expression of fear and awe that Quinn imagines is on her face too.

Rachel lets go of Quinn and bypasses Santana, kneeling down to greet the small cocker spaniel that Quinn hasn’t seen in months, Nemo, who’s come to greet them too.

It’s probably comical – the way Quinn and Santana sort of stare at each other for a second in fear – but Quinn’s too busy trying to murder all the stupid butterflies in her stomach to appreciate the humor. She steps forward and wraps her arm around Santana’s shoulder, pulling her in for a quick hug.

“Where is she?” Her voice is soft and full of wonder that she can’t stamp down.

“Kitchen,” Santana replies.

There’s a loud scramble and the two of them turn towards the kitchen, the sounds of Brittany and Rachel greeting each other with high-pitched exclamations reaching their ears.

Quinn rolls her eyes and hands the beer to a chuckling Santana. Her throat feels dry as she walks into the kitchen and sees her wife and one of her oldest friends embracing in jubilation, Nemo jumping up on his hind legs around them and barking.

Honestly, Quinn can’t decide if she wants to laugh or cry.

Brittany notices her and all motion stops, halts for a second, and Quinn is hyperaware of the way Brittany is staring at her, the way Rachel is smiling at her and the way Santana can’t seem to stop looking at Brittany, her expression halfway between affectionate and terrified.

“Quinn,” Brittany breathes, like she can’t believe Quinn’s here.

“Hey, Britt,” she manages to say. “Long time.”

She thinks maybe Rachel chuckles a little under her breath but Brittany strides the few feet towards her and wraps her long arms around Quinn’s neck.

“Yeah,” Brittany agrees, hugging her tightly before letting go.

It’s weird. Really, really weird. Quinn looks to Santana thanks to a lack of anywhere better to stare and they all sort of just stand there. The four of them reunited. The moment feels fleeting and nostalgic and Quinn’s back to that strange place between laughter and tears.

She sees Santana shift uncomfortably before Brittany’s voice cuts through the silence offering them drinks.

Quinn points to the beer Santana had set on the counter barely getting the words, “We brought beer,” out of her mouth before Santana is grabbing a bottle, twisting the cap off and taking a long pull.

Seriously, Quinn’s probably going to need therapy after all this because now Brittany’s admonishing Santana for being rude like they’re still together, like they’re still this one unit that wasn’t ever broken apart. All the awkwardness from before gets washed away and the familiarity of the moment is surprisingly much harder to handle.

Then again, Quinn really shouldn’t be surprised. Brittany was always like that. She didn’t let things get weird; she just cut through all that strangeness like it was nothing.

Santana looks like she’s about to bite Brittany’s head off for chastising her, but the doorbell rings before anything can happen and Brittany bounces off the get their food.

Her friend looks happy, carefree, almost exactly like the old Brittany and it doesn’t even look forced. It’s like she just showed up into her old apartment, her old life and it still fit the same, she just walked in and went back in time.

“She looks good,” Quinn comments absently, grabbing a beer.

Rachel walks up and slides her arm around Quinn’s waist, her head resting for just a moment on Quinn’s shoulder. “Yeah,” she agrees.

Quinn spares a look at Santana and sees the silent contemplation on her face as she takes a long pull of her beer.

\--  
 _  
“I like Santana and Brittany,” Rachel commented as they rode the subway. They were standing near the door, Quinn holding onto a pole overhead and Rachel holding onto Quinn._

_They had just left the aforementioned women after a relatively pleasant dinner where, thankfully, Santana was only half the bitch Quinn expected her to be and Brittany was, as always, a delight to be around._

_“Yeah?” It felt really juvenile, but harmony between her girlfriend and her two best friends was kind of important to her and while she wasn’t sure if it was a deal breaker, it would definitely be an obstacle to overcome. She really liked Rachel. Like,_ really _liked her and a roadblock this early would put a real damper on her feelings._

_“Yeah, they’re really cute together,” she continued, an adorable crinkle to her nose._

_“If by cute you mean absolutely sickening to be around, then yes, I totally agree with you,” Quinn answered, gripping the pole above her head tightly as the train zipped through the tunnels._

_“They are not,” Rachel retorted, the hands on Quinn’s hips tightening as she swayed with the movement of the train._

_“You haven’t been around them for nearly two decades,” Quinn argued, sliding closer to her girlfriend._

_“They love each other a lot,” Rachel said. “You can tell.”_

_Quinn laughed. “Yeah,” she admitted. If there was one ultimate truth in this world it was that Santana and Brittany were pretty much gone on each other. “They’re pretty obvious about it.”_

_“It’s really romantic,” Rachel gushed. “High school sweethearts, moving to the big city together, all that jazz.”_

_“Yeah,” Quinn said dryly. “They’re a real fairytale.”_

_“Quinn,” Rachel chastised exasperatedly._

_“Trust me,” Quinn explained. “When you’ve been around them for your entire life, their constant gushing over each other gets old.”_

_It was Rachel’s turn to laugh at her. “You’d miss it if were gone.”_

_“It will never be gone,” Quinn said. “I’m pretty much burdened with them for eternity.”_

_“You love them,” Rachel replied knowingly and Quinn tried to figure out how the hell a girl she had only known for a few months knew her so well already. It sent a warm feeling over her skin and she smiled without meaning to._

_“They’re my best friends,” Quinn answered. “It’s my job to be constantly annoyed with them while loving them at the same time.”_

_Rachel fisted her hands in Quinn’s coat near her hips. “They love you a lot too,” the other girl replied._

_Quinn rolled her eyes and leaned closer to Rachel, nearly pressing her up against the train doors. “Why are we talking about Santana and Brittany?”_

_Rachel tugged at the sides of Quinn’s coat and smiled up at her. “What do you want to talk about instead?”_

_The train turned abruptly and Quinn bumped into Rachel gently, their faces inches apart. “You want to come over to my place for dessert?” Quinn asked, her lips brushing over Rachel’s lightly._

_Her girlfriend swallowed and bit her lip in a way that was entirely appealing. Quinn glanced around the train car quickly to see if anyone was watching them but most of the late night riders had their noses buried in books or their faces pressed to the windows._

_Quinn turned her attention back to Rachel who was looking over her shoulder at a subway map of the stations. When she looked back at Quinn she smiled before pressing their lips together._

_“My place is closer,” Rachel whispered._  
  
\--

Dinner flies by and Quinn only half pays attention to the conversation, struck dumb by the sight of her two friends sitting side by side at their old kitchen table. She has to stop herself from staring outright, but it’s just so strange to see again, to see Santana and look to her right and see _Brittany._ Like she never left.

It gets to the point where Quinn decides she needs to leave. Now. With the way Santana is acting and the way staring at Brittany is making her feel she kind of needs to get out of the apartment despite half of her feeling like she never wants to leave its comfort.

“Well,” she says, throwing back the rest of her drink and standing. “I’ve got a huge trial to prep for tomorrow so we should get going.”

Rachel takes the hand she offers her as they stand and she absently listens to Rachel and Santana exchange barbs in their caustically affectionate way. They both distractedly kiss Santana goodbye on the cheek and do the same to Brittany.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Quinn says to her friend, looking her in the eye and meaning it.

It’s dumb to say because really, at the end of the day, Brittany being back in the apartment temporarily doesn’t exactly mean she’s _back._ Santana is about the most insufferably stubborn person on the planet and way too prideful to actually get her shit together and take the chance she wasn’t afforded six months ago.

Brittany will probably be gone again, out into the city and into her other life and Quinn will be left to lick Santana’s wounds once again – a bottle of scotch and a well-worn bar stool as medicine.

She tries not to think about it as they leave. She lets herself pretend like this is all normal, like their lives don’t have this giant Brittany-sized hole in it as she intertwines her fingers with Rachel’s and walks out of their apartment and to the elevators.

Quinn lets her head hit the back of the elevator wall as they descend and watches the numbers tick down on the display.

“Santana’s still in love with her,” Rachel comments, snuggling into Quinn’s side and tugging on her hand.

“Duh,” Quinn says, her eyes not moving.

“Brittany’s still in love with her too,” the other girl continues.

That is probably the worst part of it all. “This sucks,” Quinn admits, finally looking down at her wife. “I feel like nothing good can come of this.”

The doors ding open and Rachel pulls her out into the lobby. “You need to stop seeing the worst in everything, Quinn.”

It’s dark, but blissfully not raining as they step outside and turn to the subway station. “I don’t see any other way to see this.”

Rachel worries her bottom lip between her teeth and brings her other hand over to grip Quinn’s arm. “Brittany’s back.”

“For now,” Quinn says.

They step down into the underground station and Quinn pulls Rachel closer to her side. “You always told me that Brittany and Santana are _Brittany and Santana_ and that was that. That of all the things you believed in that one was a no-brainer.”

The station is mostly empty as they step to the yellow line and wait for the train. Quinn glances around before answering. “Well that was before it all went to hell.”

“Quinn,” Rachel says, pulling at her arm and forcing her to look at her wife. “They had a little bump in the road, they’ll get over it.”

“Six months is not a bump, Rachel,” Quinn hisses actually getting kind of angry now. “It’s a goddamn mountain and they can’t just _get over it_.”

It’s kind of strange but when Santana and Brittany broke up it was like Quinn lost faith in something really special. It took her a long time to reconcile it all. Santana and Brittany were her rocks - pillars in her life that were supposed to be around forever. She spent her whole life believing in that. Her _entire life._

So many people had disappointed her over the years, so many people that weren’t supposed to, but she never lost faith in Santana and Brittany, never thought twice about whether they’d be around or not. When that all fell to shit it broke something fundamental in Quinn and she’s afraid to trust or hope in it again.

“Quinn,” Rachel says again, the sound of an incoming train forcing her to raise her voice.

“Fucking drop it, Rachel,” Quinn orders.

Rachel’s expression darkens. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

The train pulls up and Rachel lets go of her arm and hand to walk onto the train, anger evident in the way she practically stomps onto the car and finds an open seat.

Quinn exhales loudly and pinches the bridge of her nose as she gets on after her and drops into the seat next to her, sliding her arm over the top and turning to face Rachel.

“Baby, don’t be mad,” Quinn pleads softly, letting her fingers play with a piece of Rachel’s hair.

“Don’t ‘baby’ me, Quinn,” Rachel retorts, turning to look at her.

Quinn rolls her eyes, but admits defeat before this argument escalates. “I’m sorry, Rach,” she says. “I’m just off balance about the whole thing.”

Rachel turns in the seat and they’re practically curled up together at this point, Rachel’s knees bumping into hers and her hands coming to play with the lapels of Quinn’s jacket.

“It’s going to be okay,” Rachel whispers.

Quinn gulps. “I hope you’re right.”

“Just believe in it. This could be a really good thing.”

There’s a light in Rachel’s eyes that Quinn desperately wants to dive into. Her heart tightens and she lets out a low breath. She gives up a little part of her, lets a small corner of her brain believe in the hope Rachel’s trying to channel into her and feels a small smile grace her lips.

Rachel’s biting her lip and staring at her and Quinn latches on to the one thing that’s actually stable in her life, the only thing left that she actually does believe in unflinchingly.

“I love you, you know,” she comments, bringing up a finger to tuck hair behind Rachel’s ear.

“So I’ve heard,” Rachel jokes, smiling.

\--  
  
 _Quinn has been convinced since a young age that God hated her. It was pretty evident when she was younger and over the years little things have only served to confirm it._

_Like now, and the fact that God has sent Santana Lopez to her door at some crazy hour of the night to drunkenly pound on it like a maniac pretty much proved her point._

_Oh and yeah. There’s the part where easily seven times out of ten that Santana showed up, Rachel would have her hand down Quinn pants._

_Thus the whole God hated her theory._

_And then, because it was probably the seventeen billionth (or maybe, like, the second) time this had happened that week, Rachel started laughing. Uncontrollably._

_“It’s not funny,” Quinn groaned. “She’s trying to kill me. It’s like she knows.”_

_“Don’t be dramatic,” Rachel replied with mirth. “That’s my territory.”_

_The pounding continued and Quinn smacked her head back against the wall of their kitchen. Rachel stood in front of her, her forehead on Quinn’s collarbone and her hand between them._

_“You gotta move your hand,” Quinn croaked._

_Rachel did. Just in the opposite direction Quinn meant for her to._

_“Rachel,” Quinn warned. The pounding grew more frantic and Quinn could hear a muffled, “Fabray!”_

_“You said move my hand,” Rachel replied innocently._

_Quinn glowered down at the brunette and tried to even out her breath. “She’ll break down that door and you know it.”_

_Laughing, Rachel rolled her eyes, but pulled her hand away and stepped back. She bit her lip and smirked when Quinn practically stumbled forward._

_“You are in so much trouble later,” Quinn intoned, making her way towards their front door._

_“You could just ignore her, you know,” Rachel said. “Maybe then she’d stop showing up at all odd hours of the night.”_

_“She’s my best friend,” Quinn said as she rearranged her clothes. “I can’t just ignore her.”_

_“That’s not why you won’t ignore her.”_

_Quinn’s head snapped up and her eyes narrowed at her wife. “What is that supposed to mean?”_

_“It means the reason she thinks she can just waltz in here all the time,” Rachel answered, hands on her hips. “Is that you have some screwed-up guilt complex that renders you incapable of saying no to her.”_

_“She’s my best friend,” Quinn repeated. “We have a responsibility to each other. What am I supposed to do? Turn her back out onto the streets when she’s wasted?”_

_“She’s never going to learn,” Rachel started._

_“I don’t want to have this conversation with you,” Quinn interrupted, holding up her hand and pinching the bridge of her nose at the loud noise still coming from their front door. Santana was always persistent._

_“Well you should have it with someone,” Rachel replied. “Because Santana’s not getting any better.”_

_“It’s only been two months,” Quinn argued. “Cut her some slack.”_

_“And how long is it going to take you to get over it?” Rachel asked, chin lifting._

_“It’s only been two months!” Quinn exclaimed again, her voice rising._

_“It’s been years, Quinn. Someday you have to stop holding yourself responsible for Santana’s demons.”_

_They fell silent and stared at each other before Rachel broke first and turned on her heel to stride out of the kitchen._

_“I’ll be upstairs,” Rachel threw back at her. “Don’t take too long.”_

_Quinn waved her off and shook her head, wincing at the constant knocking and yelling she could hear. It was probably waking up the entire damn city at this point._

_Because this wasn’t the first time this had happened and Quinn could practically picture the way Santana was all leaned up against the door, glaring and knocking on its surface, Quinn decided to amuse herself. Like usual._

_The locks slid out of place and she grabbed the handle, pulling hard and whipping the door open fast._

_Santana nearly fell face first into the entryway, failing to do so only because it wasn’t the first time for Santana either and she grabbed Quinn’s shoulders as she flew in._

_“Bitch,” Santana mumbled as she straightened and headed for the living room._

_“You know what time it is, right?”_

_“Fuck, I have a watch don’t I?” Santana exclaimed, holding up her wrist and waving it in Quinn’s face as she walked backwards._

_Then Santana stopped abruptly, her arm still raised and her eyes wide as she looked Quinn up and down before laughing hysterically._

_Quinn rolled her eyes and started to walk towards the living room, heading for the cabinet with the extra pillow and blankets. “What is so funny?”_

_“I totally cockblocked you, didn’t I?” Santana gasped out. She plopped down on the couch as Quinn set down the extra bedding next to her._

_She looked down at her friend and propped her hands on her hips. “That term is both inaccurate and inappropriate.”_

_Santana gave her a disgusted look. “You’re turning into your little dwarf.”_

_Quinn let out an annoyed breath but before she could continue Santana burst out into laughter again._

_“But I totally_ did _cockblock you.”_

_“Whatever,” Quinn replied with another eye roll._

_Santana hummed and swayed back and forth, her eyes shiny and her face flushed. It would have been amusing but all Quinn could feel was sadness._

_“Just how drunk are you right now?”_

_Her friend held up her hand and squinted her eyes before pushing her thumb and index finger together until they were almost touching._

_“I’m awesome,” Santana answered, her gaze intently focused on her own fingers._

_With a shake of her head Santana snapped out of it and reached into the inside pocket of her trench coat, pulling a small bottle out from inside and twisting the cap off._

_“Don’t puke on the couch,” Quinn warned. She watched Santana sag further into the couch and tip the open bottle against her lips._

_“I can handle myself,” Santana said, putting the cap back on the bottle and reaching around Quinn to set it on the coffee table._

_Quinn tapped her foot and looked towards the kitchen. Her mini-argument with Rachel made her anxious, but she felt an equally strong pull to the girl on the couch, a need to make sure she was okay that Quinn couldn’t suppress._

_“Do you need anything?” Quinn asked, looking back at Santana._

_The other girl seemed to contemplate the question for a long, silent minute. Her eyes widened and she stared unsteadily at Quinn’s face. “I don’t know,” Santana answered, the words coming out in a whisper._

_Quinn arched an eyebrow and didn’t really know how to respond to that. She chalked it up to the whiskey and cheap beer and the muted scent of menthol cigarettes that was emanating from every pore of Santana’s body. Quinn let out a low breath._

_“I’m going to bed,” she said. “You know where everything is.”_

_She turned to walk away, but stopped almost immediately at the low, tortured sigh that escaped Santana’s lips followed by an almost inaudible, “I miss Brittany.”_

_Pain shot through her at the sound and the uncharacteristic vulnerability she could hear in Santana’s voice. She closed her eyes against the feeling and the tears that immediately sprang up and tried to get herself to breathe steadily._

_Turning around, she walked back to the couch and sat down next to her friend silently._

_“I know,” Quinn gulped after a long minute of just sitting there. Looking straight ahead, she forced the truth out. “Me too.”_

_Santana drooped drunkenly to her side, her head hitting Quinn’s shoulder and staying there._

_They didn’t say anything else, just sat there together with memories and guilt swirling around them. It wasn’t until hours later when Rachel gently moved Santana off of her and pulled Quinn off the couch that she realized they had fallen asleep like that._  
  
\--

A loud pounding shocks Quinn out of sleep and after nearly three decades of knowing Santana Lopez, she recognizes the sound almost immediately.

She lifts her head off of Rachel’s shoulder and checks the time on the clock near the bed. Three in the goddamn morning, of course. Santana always has awesome timing. The one night she actually gets to sleep before two and Santana shows up. Someone upstairs _legitimately_ hates her.

Rachel mumbles in protest against either the loud sound thumping that’s resounding through their house or Quinn getting out of bed. She’s not sure, but she presses a quick kiss to her wife’s temple before she shuffles out of the room.

She tries to put her hair into some kind of order but it doesn’t really obey and stays tangled and messy where it’s piled on top of her head. She plasters on a glare and swings her door open to reveal her best friend, smiling like a complete ass on her doorstep.

“Morning,” Santana greets.

“Do you have any concept of time?”

Santana takes a look at her watch and Quinn rolls her eyes. “Yes,” her friend says. “It’s three in the morning. Is this a test?”

A shuffling of feet behind her signals Rachel’s woken up and come to see what the ruckus is about it and it kind of ticks Quinn off because it’s one thing if Quinn fails to get a good night’s sleep, but thanks to Quinn’s rampant sense of protectiveness, there’s an irrational need in her to make sure Rachel gets one.

“It’s just Santana. Go back to bed, Rach,” she orders, but Rachel disobeys, like she usually does, and makes her way to Quinn’s side, leaning against her sleepily and squinting at Santana.

When Rachel asks what’s wrong and Quinn feels a swell of affection for the way Rachel cares about her friends, Santana responds in full bitch mode. Quinn’s torn between knocking Santana out and hugging her because when Santana is this nasty it usually means something’s really troubling her.

She calms Rachel down and sends her back to bed with a long kiss and a promise to come up soon before turning back to her friend.

“What’s wrong?” Quinn asks.

“I just can’t be in my apartment right now,” Santana answers and Quinn’s eyes go wide with the honesty in the statement. She had expected Santana to shrug the question off, to dance around her feelings for a while, but instead all she sees is her best friend, soaking wet and looking more lost than ever.

She lets her in and follows her to the living room, surprised when Santana refuses the drink she offers her. Santana has two reactions to pain: punching people or getting drunk. If she’s beyond those two remedies Quinn’s kind of out of her element on how to help her.

“You wanna talk about it or something?”

Santana stutters around refusal and keeps looking at the ground looking so un-Santana like that Quinn feels her chest tighten painfully.

Quinn thinks about how it felt to see Brittany back in Santana’s apartment, how it felt to have her around again even for just those brief hours they were together and she tries to imagine how it’s all affecting Santana. To have her back all the time, in her apartment, acting like nothing bad ever happened and Quinn’s heart breaks all over again.

“You know where everything is,” she tells her friend. “Just yell if you need something.”

Santana gives her a small, unsure smile. “Thanks, Q.”

“Anytime, girl,” Quinn replies, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around Santana’s neck. She squeezes her in tight, tries to convey all the empathy she possibly can in the hug. “It’s going to be okay.”

Surprisingly, and really it’s more telling than anything else, Santana sags into Quinn’s body, burying her face in Quinn’s neck and wrapping her arms around her back. They stand there in silence for a moment, clinging to each other and Quinn forces herself to be strong for her friend, to let her know that if Santana needs to fall, Quinn’s right there to catch her, even if she’s falling herself.

“Thanks,” Santana says again, her voice hoarse and rough.

She smiles, pulls away and squeezes Santana’s shoulder before turning to walk away.

\--

Rachel is sitting up in bed when she gets there, the TV on as she distractedly channel surfs.

“You should be asleep,” Quinn says, pulling off her shirt and sliding between the sheets.

“I wanted to make sure Santana was alright,” Rachel replies, dropping the remote on the bedside table and sliding down next to Quinn.

The TV is stopped on some news channel and the anchor drones on about the state of partisan politics in the country as Rachel cozies up to her side. Quinn listens with one ear as she tries not to think about her friend on the couch downstairs.

“Is she okay?” Rachel asks after Quinn stays silent.

Quinn laughs bitterly. “Do you think she’s okay?”

“Quinn,” Rachel warns, shifting on top of her to settle between the blonde’s thighs, her hands propped up on either side of Quinn’s face. Rachel’s face replaces the sight of the television in Quinn’s line of view and she sighs.

“Sorry,” she breathes.

Rachel purses her lips as she looks down at her and shakes her head. “Maybe you should go back down there and talk to her. You both need to talk about this. It’s eating away at you.”

“I don’t need to _talk_ ,” Quinn argues, her hands sliding up Rachel’s sides. “Santana and I don’t do that.”

“You talk all the time,” Rachel disagrees, arching an eyebrow.

“Not about this.”

The t-shirt Rachel’s wearing slides up as Quinn’s hands travel further along her body and Rachel puts on her _I am not amused with you_ expression.

“You can’t distract me every time you don’t want to have a conversation,” Rachel says.

Quinn’s runs her palms up Rachel’s bare back until they settle over the clasp of her bra, plucking at it absently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re the one that decided to lie on top of me.”

“We’re not having sex,” Rachel states.

“Yeah,” Quinn agrees. “I noticed.”

“Quinn,” Rachel warns and Quinn spends a moment to wonder how her name somehow became a catchall phrase for Rachel to use.

The bed creaks as Quinn pumps her hips up and over and rolls them so Rachel is on her back, Quinn sliding down to settle a thigh between her legs.

Hands grasp onto Quinn’s cheeks and hold her steady before she can bring her lips down to trail across Rachel’s neck.

“Rach,” Quinn whines.

“You need to deal with this,” Rachel says.

Quinn deflates, dropping forward and rolling off her wife to her back. She lets her eyes settle on the glow of the TV again and watches as the channel flashes pictures of various politicians on the screen.

“If you’re not going to talk to Santana, you can talk to me,” Rachel says gently, propping herself up on an elbow.

“I know,” Quinn breathes. Her eyes move from the television to their ceiling as her jaw clenches. “I just feel like everything is irreparably fucked. What’s talking about it going to do? It’s not going to fix anything.”

“It’s not your responsibility to fix Santana,” Rachel replies, reaching over to the bedside table to grab the remote. “I don’t know how many times I need to say that before you finally get it.”

The television clicks off as Quinn sits up in bed and swings her legs over the side, putting her back to Rachel. “I’m her best friend.”

The sheets move around as Rachel scoots up behind her, smooth legs bracketing her hips. A warm kiss is pressed to her shoulder as Rachel smoothes her palms over Quinn’s stomach, slightly soothing the twisting sensation that’s running wild there.

“The only person that can fix Santana right now is Brittany,” she whispers into the skin of Quinn’s back.

Quinn breathes, closes her eyes and leans back against Rachel. “I know.”

“This is about more than just Santana and Brittany.”

Her jaw clenches and her nails bite into her palms but she doesn’t deny it. “I know,” she repeats.

“You need to stop feeling guilty, Quinn,” Rachel starts but Quinn whips her head to the side and silences her; she doesn’t feel up to hearing a lecture she had already heard a hundred times.

“I can’t just turn that off,” she snaps. “No matter how many times you tell me to.”

A soft, patient breath escapes her wife. “Let’s go to sleep, baby.”

Quinn lets herself be tugged backwards and under the sheets and Rachel stays pressed to her from behind.

It’s raining pretty hard outside. Quinn can hear it beat against their bedroom window as she presses her head into the pillow and Rachel traces her fingers over her abs.

She lies awake for a long while, the dark silence of the room and Rachel’s breathing against her neck comforting her in a small way. She traps Rachel’s hand against her stomach and tangles their fingers together, her palm feeling the hard cut of the diamond ring on Rachel’s fourth finger.

She smiles softly into her pillow and lets sleep overtake her.

\--

The next day, Quinn is standing in the kitchen, dressed like she’s going into work and flipping through a thick paper on the kitchen counter.

Rachel walks in, still in shorts and a worn t-shirt and arches an eyebrow at Quinn’s outfit.

“Are you going into work today?”

Quinn shakes her head. “I just need to drop stuff off at the courthouse and go talk to Judge Sylvester.”

Rachel walks up to her and wraps her hand around the loose tie around Quinn’s neck. “That explains the look.”

Quinn shrugs and smiles. “What works, works,” she explains.

Her wife hums in agreement before tugging at the tie and bringing Quinn’s lips down to kiss her good morning. Quinn presses forward, wraps her arm around Rachel’s waist and deepens the kiss for a long moment.

“Thanks for last night,” Quinn whispers. “Sorry I was being a jerk.”

“You weren’t,” Rachel denies, glancing around all of a sudden. “Is Santana still sleeping?”

Quinn reaches across the counter and grabs a sheet of paper laying there. She hands it to Rachel, who lets go of Quinn’s tie to read it over.

“They got a break in Brittany’s case?”

Quinn nods. “Looks like it.”

“That’s great,” Rachel says brightly.

“Hopefully,” Quinn answers.

Rachel rolls her eyes and drops the paper back onto the counter. “You’re such a pessimist. It’s exhausting.”

“I am not!” Quinn denies. “It’s called being pragmatic.”

“Whatever you want to call it,” Rachel says, turning to walk out of the kitchen. “I’m going to shower,” she throws over her shoulder, lifting her shirt up by the hem and pulling it over her head.

Quinn blows out a breath at the sight and looks at her newspaper before looking back at her retreating wife. She looks at her watch and taps her foot up and down, trying to decide how soon she needs to leave.

Santana’s note is stark against their counter and she stares at it for a second before making up her mind. It’s a terrible coping mechanism, and _of course_ it isn’t just a coping mechanism - but it helps. Rachel helps her forget all about that nastiness that normally swirls around her. It helps quell the demons that lurk around every corner and it gets the image of Santana’s devastated face out of her mind.

Rachel’s half undressed by the time she gets to the bedroom and she strides up behind her wife and wraps her arms around her from behind, palms sliding hotly against a bare stomach.

“You smell good,” she whispers into Rachel’s shoulder.

Rachel laughs, settling her hands over Quinn’s on her stomach. “I need a shower.”

“Nah,” Quinn denies, pressing kisses up Rachel’s neck and letting her fingers trace the waistband of Rachel’s shorts.

“Quinn,” Rachel warns. “Don’t you need to get going?”

“I am right where I need to be,” Quinn states, scraping her teeth on the underside of Rachel’s ear.

Rachel spins in her arms and grips her tie again, pulling it out of its knot and throwing it on the bed and starting in on the buttons of Quinn’s shirt.

Quinn grips Rachel’s hips and walks her backward to the bed, lifting her up and throwing her on top of the covers when they get there, her shirt completely unbuttoned and hanging open as she crawls on top of her.

She settles down, their bare stomachs pressing together as Rachel drags her palms over Rachel’s shoulders and pulls Quinn’s shirt off, throwing it over the side of the bed.

A gasp beats out of Rachel’s mouth as Quinn rocks down between her thighs and presses their lips together.

Rachel’s hands slide between them as Quinn lifts up and take purchase on the waistband of Quinn’s slacks before the blonde bats them away and moves down.

“Quinn, what are you-,”

Quinn cuts her off with a hand over her mouth and laughs at the narrowed eyes she gets in return.

“Can you shut up for two minutes?” Quinn jokes and Rachel’s eyes go wide as Quinn removes her hand.

“That’s rude,” Rachel huffs, but lifts her hips so Quinn can slide her shorts off, underwear and all and throws them somewhere near where they dropped Quinn’s shirt.

Quinn runs her lips up Rachel’s leg, pecking soft kisses up smooth skin and Rachel’s breath hitches attractively the higher she gets.

“Take your pants off,” Rachel orders, running her hands through blonde hair.

“No,” Quinn disobeys.

It’s hot; this power struggle between them, and Quinn won’t deny that she totally gets off on it. On the flush that covers Rachel’s body at the hint of a challenge and that glare Rachel wears the entire time.

Quinn fishes around in the sheets for the tie Rachel threw on the bed earlier and wraps her hand around the silk, pulling it towards her and moving up on the bed, her stomach pressed into hot flesh.

Rachel’s eyes widen even further before narrowing as she notices what Quinn’s holding.

“No, no way,” Rachel says. “Do you know how much that tie costs?”

“It’s _my_ tie,” Quinn argues, pressing down between Rachel’s legs and leaning over so their faces are close together.

“ _I_ bought it for you,” Rachel retorts, jutting her chin out defiantly.

“Buy me another one,” Quinn says, ignoring the way Rachel glares at her as she grips both of her wife’s wrists and plants them above her head.

Rachel resists, like she always does, and pushes back against Quinn’s hands, arching her back and letting out a hot breath.

But Quinn’s just strong enough at the moment to keep Rachel in her hold as she wraps the silk tie around her wrists and tightens, twisting the other end around the rungs of their headboard.

“Just chill out,” Quinn orders when she’s done with her task.

Rachel squirms and Quinn smiles, arousal curling in her stomach and pooling between her thighs. She watches Rachel lift her hands up and test the bindings so Quinn clucks her tongue at her and shakes her head.

“You don’t want to ruin such a nice tie, do you?”

It makes Rachel drop down defeated but she can see the warning flash in her wife’s eyes, the warning that says Quinn’s in for it good when she gets out of this situation.

Quinn ignores the look and kisses her wife, enjoying the way Rachel’s lips taste and the feel of her tongue curling erotically in her mouth.

She could probably keep kissing Rachel forever and just forget the rest of the world, but her wife squirms again, pressing her hips upward against Quinn’s stomach and she breaks off from their kiss.

Trailing her lips down a long, slender neck, Quinn lets her hands trace down Rachel’s sides before sliding under smooth thighs and lifting up.

She runs her tongue down Rachel’s collarbone and down her chest, swirling around a pert nipple before biting down softly and smiling as Rachel arches off the bed sharply.

Quinn chuckles and Rachel practically growls at her. “Fabray,” her wife warns.

Her mouth slides over and down, teeth scraping over Rachel’s flat abs and traveling further down, pausing for a long, tender moment at her lower stomach.

Hazel eyes slide closed for a second and she breathes in, distracted for a second by the calming sensation she gets from the gesture, before Rachel cants her hips upward in a silent command to move.

Quinn obeys and slides even further, letting her hands hook under Rachel’s knees and pull them over her shoulders before dragging her tongue through wet folds, torturously slow.

It pulls a low groan out of Rachel and Quinn sees her head push back into the pillow and her hands pull against the tie.

“Don’t ruin my tie,” Quinn jokes, pulling away for a moment.

Rachel kicks her heel into Quinn’s back at that and picks her head up to glare at her. The look shoots straight to Quinn’s groin and makes her head swirl.

All of a sudden, the need to drag it out evaporates and all Quinn wants to do is rip a quick, searing orgasm out of her wife, to make her scream out and to put memories in Rachel’s brain that will linger all day long.

She ducks back down and drags her tongue up again, stopping at the top to wrap her lips around Rachel’s clit and suck hard.

It gets the desired result as Rachel’s thighs tighten around her head and her back arches up, pushing her hips towards Quinn’s mouth.

Her fingers dance down Rachel’s thigh until they’re joining her tongue, two of them pushing into heated flesh before pulling back out and thrusting in again.

Rachel thrashes and Quinn sucks harder, pushes in deeper and hums into her wife’s clit, enjoying the deep moan it produces.

Their rhythm is hot and frenzied and it doesn’t take long before she can feel Rachel’s thighs start to shake. She moves her free hand to splay across Rachel’s abs, holding her down. The skin under her palm is tight and coiled and Quinn thrusts in hard at the feeling, lets her tongue flick back and forth against sensitive flesh.

Rachel’s whole body tenses but it’s not enough for Quinn so she bites down softly and curls her fingers, twisting and thrusting until Rachel lets out a scream, Quinn’s name on the tail end of it, as her orgasm rushes through her and she tightens around Quinn’s fingers.

\--  
  
 _Quinn stumbled into her apartment only about half awake and back aching from the bag full of books slung across it. She rolled her head on her shoulders and dropped her bag onto the floor in the entryway, shuffling towards the kitchen. Coffee. She needed coffee. And food. Food would be good._

_She had a final in about four hours and she didn’t trust herself to sleep. If she fell asleep now, she’d pass out for her entire final, fail her evidence exam, get kicked out of school, never become a lawyer and not have enough money to buy that diamond necklace she wanted to buy Rachel for their anniversary._

_On top of that, her father had called earlier to give her his weekly speech about the importance of grades and Quinn’s life choices and whether or not she’d made up her mind about his job offer or not. The conversation, like all conversations with her father, left her irritable and stressed and she really needed to get her final over and done with so she could sleep for about six hundred hours._

_She was running on autopilot, focused solely on her refrigerator and little else, so she didn’t notice that her kitchen lights were on and that there were clanking noises coming throughout the apartment._

_Which is why when she stepped into her kitchen and saw Rachel standing at the counter, she nearly had a heart attack._

_“Shit!”_

_Rachel gasped and spun towards her. “Quinn!”_

_“What the hell?”_

_It wasn’t that she wasn’t happy to see her girlfriend. She was really happy. It was just that she couldn’t figure out why Rachel was here and she was desperately running dates through her head trying to figure out if they had plans she had forgotten or if it was some holiday she hadn’t remembered. Law school had fried her brain, it wouldn’t have been the first time she had accidentally ditched Rachel._

_“Hey,” Rachel said, calmer this time as she took the oven mitt she had on one hand off and threw it on the counter._

_That was about the time the smells in the kitchen hit her and her stomach growled loudly. Rachel was cooking. Something delicious by the smell of it and Quinn hadn’t had real food in days. Hot Pockets and Red Bull had been her standard meal in the library. She didn’t have time for anything else._

_Rachel walked towards her and Quinn finally let her brain register the sight of her girlfriend, dressed in this pair of short-shorts that Quinn absolutely loved on Rachel and Quinn’s favorite sweatshirt, her school’s logo big and bold on the front. There was a smudge of flour on Rachel’s cheek and her hair was swept up in a messy bun, strands falling all around her face._

_She looked gorgeous and perfect and everything Quinn needed to see right now. All that exhaustion from staring at the tiny black words for hours upon hours rushed out of her._

_“What are you doing here?” Quinn asked as Rachel stepped in front of her and gave her a quick kiss._

_“Making you food,” Rachel answered simply, smiling._

_“Making me food?”_

_“Yes,” Rachel agreed. “Brittany mentioned that she and Santana had barely seen you these past weeks and you were probably holed up in the library, starving yourself to good grades.”_

_Quinn nodded slowly and blinked. “So you came over here in the middle of the night to make me food.”_

_“Yes,” Rachel said. “After watching you go through this twice now, I knew Brittany was absolutely correct in her guess about what you were up to and I realized that the reason you keep showing up to our dates with bags under your eyes and your clothes wrinkled was because you’ve been living in the library.”_

_“So you made me food,” Quinn repeated, her eyes still wide._

_Rachel laughed and the sound settled warmly in Quinn’s stomach. “Yeah,” she murmured, sliding her hands around Quinn’s waist. “You have a final in the morning, right? I figured you’d stop by here first.”_

_“How long have you been here?” Quinn wrapped her arms around Rachel’s neck and pulled their bodies closer._

_“Just a few hours,” Rachel answered. “I stopped at that all night grocery down the street and then convinced Hal to let me in.”_

_Hal was the doorman at Quinn’s building and he and Rachel were constantly locked in a battle of wills. Rachel had been on a campaign to get the older, gruff man to warm up to her while the other man continued to question her presence in Quinn’s apartment and sometimes refused to acknowledge he had seen her before._

_Then her brain actually caught up to the conversation and she was able to put two and two together._

_“How did you get here?” Quinn asked, pulling away slightly to look down at Rachel._

_“I walked,” Rachel replied. “And took the subway. How else?”_

_“Rachel,” Quinn said darkly. “It’s the middle of the night.”_

_Rachel removed her arms and pulled away, walking over to the oven and opening it, grabbing her discarded oven mitt as she did it. “So?”_

_“So,” Quinn responded, watching as Rachel pulled a casserole dish out and set it on the counter. Quinn felt her mouth water at the sight. “You shouldn’t be out by yourself at this time of night.”_

_Rachel looked at her like she was absurd before walking over to the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of water. “You were,” she argued._

_“That’s different.”_

_“How?” Rachel twisted the cap off the bottle and handed it to Quinn, leaning back against the counter and crossing her arms as she observed her._

_“It just is,” Quinn said, tipping the bottle against her lips and letting cool liquid slide down her throat._

_“They do teach you how to argue in law school, right?” It was said amused and light and Rachel was smiling at her softly._

_“Rachel,” Quinn intoned. “You shouldn’t be out this time of night. Especially in your neighborhood.”_

_“Quinn, I’ve lived in this city for nearly six years, I know what I’m doing.” Rachel pushed off the counter and went to the cabinet, pulling out plates and setting them down._

_In her head, she understood what Rachel was saying, she knew she was sounding overly paranoid and protective and it was kind of ridiculous that she would imply Rachel couldn’t handle herself but she couldn’t help it._

_She had just spent the whole night reading case after case about young, naïve women on dangerous city streets. About opportunistic killers and rapists that lurk around every corner. About undeserving people in terrible situations. Then Santana, night after night, telling her about whatever poor unsuspecting girl had gotten attacked, mugged, murdered that night._

_She didn’t trust this city. Not at all._

_“I know that,” she breathed, running a hand over her eyes._

_“Come on, baby,” Rachel said, reaching for Quinn’s hand and walking them over to Quinn’s kitchen table. “Let’s eat before this gets cold.”_

_Quinn gave up. The food smelled really good and Rachel looked fantastic in Quinn’s clothes and she was tired and worried about so many things so she just stopped fighting. She let Rachel take care of her in ways few people ever had._

_“Okay,” she said, taking a seat at the table. She set her bottle of water down and surveyed the food Rachel brought over. “Thanks, by the way.”_

_Rachel smiled and leaned down to kiss her. “You’re welcome,” she whispered before sitting down next to Quinn._

_A stomach full of food later and only two hours until her final, Quinn sat on her living room couch, Rachel curled into her side and her evidence textbook open on her lap. The words all blended together at this point but she still made the effort, flipping the pages over and tracing her fingers across highlighted portions._

_“You’ll do fine,” Rachel mumbled sleepily, fisting her hands into Quinn’s shirt and cuddling further into her side._

_Quinn turned her head and pressed her lips to brown hair, inhaling deeply for a moment and just resting there._

_“Thanks for being here,” she said for the fifteenth time that night._

_“I love you,” Rachel said. “Where else would I be?”_

_Quinn chuckled. “I like coming home to you,” she admitted, her palms sweating where they clutched her book._

_Rachel lifted her head up and looked at Quinn with sleepy eyes. “Yeah?”_

_“Yeah,” Quinn let out. “I don’t ever want to not.”_

_It had been on her mind for weeks. Rachel practically lived at her place anyway and when she wasn’t there, Quinn was at Rachel’s. It made sense to make this semi-official if Quinn ever stopped being a chickenshit about it but she couldn’t seem to ever get the question out._

_It wasn’t the right time anyway. School was crazy and life was crazy and she wanted to feel like she actually deserved it before she and Rachel started building a life together that tangibly. But she needed Rachel to understand the sentiment all the same, needed her to know that it was out there on the horizon._

_“Yeah?” Rachel said, this time more awake and staring at Quinn with shiny, wide eyes._

_“You still shouldn’t be out at this time of night. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”_

_Rachel rolled her eyes and deflated. “Quinn,” she started._

_All of sudden she got desperate out of nowhere. It was probably from being exhausted and nervous about her finals and the gruesome case she had open on her lap, but she couldn’t stop it._

_“I couldn’t stand it,” she said fiercely, needing Rachel to understand._

_Rachel’s head snapped to attention and they locked eyes, staring at each other for a long moment before Quinn shook her head and tried to get a hold of herself._

_“Sorry,” she whispered. “I’m really tired, and worried about my test and I keep thinking about all these terrible things and I just…”_

_“It’s okay,” Rachel said, running her hand through Quinn’s hair comfortingly. “It’s okay.”_

_“I’m really glad you’re here,” she finally said, leaning over to press a kiss to Rachel’s forehead._

_“Me too,” Rachel murmured. “Me too.”_  
  
\--

It’s just after noon when Quinn’s cell phone buzzes loudly in her pocket, nearly making her drop the extremely delicious hotdog she’s devouring for lunch.

She flips it open with one hand and manages to keep her lunch balanced in the other. “What?” she barks out.

“Meet me at Rick’s.” Is all Santana says before hanging up.

\--

It takes her about thirty minutes to actually get across town and find her way to the bar and when she does she feels guilty for not getting there sooner.

Santana’s got her forehead on the table, a cigarette in one hand and a glass of scotch near her other. All signs that Santana Lopez is having an extremely bad day.

When the first thing Santana does when she arrives is curse her out, Quinn knows something is really wrong. Especially when she gets a look at the massive bruises all over her best friend’s face.

It takes her a second to put it all together but it finally clicks. Alcohol, nicotine, bar fights with Puck. Something happened with Brittany.

“You didn’t sleep with her or anything stupid like that, did you?” Quinn asks, leaning over to look at her friend.

Santana denies it but the truth is all over her face, the way her eyes glaze over at the memory and the choking sound she makes at the question.

But Santana has zero interest in talking about it and when Quinn questions her further her friend gives her an ultimatum. Shut the fuck up or get out.

Quinn takes a long drink of scotch and holds out her hand for a cigarette, happy when her friend smiles and deflates.

She can do this for her at least.

They sit there for a while until her cigarette is burned down to the filter and she stubs it out in the ash tray. If they’re going to be here for a long time, she should probably call her wife.

She gets up from the table and flips her phone open, holds the speed dial down and waits until Rachel picks up.

“Hey, baby!” Rachel exclaims. “Where are you?”

“At Rick’s,” she answers, knowing that would say it all.

“How’s Santana?”

Quinn looks over at her friend, her head rolling on the back of the booth depressingly. “Not good.” She pauses. “She slept with Brittany.”

Rachel gasps. “No way.”

“Yes way,” Quinn laughs.

“That’s great!”

“Not so much,” Quinn denies. “If it was great do you think I’d be at Rick’s with her right now?”

“Right,” Rachel agrees. “Well, when do you think you’re coming home?”

“No idea,” Quinn admits. “I’ll call you if we’re here past dinner.”

“That bad?”

Quinn studies the grooves and cracks in the wall nearby. “I don’t know. She’s in pretty bad shape.”

“I’m sorry,” Rachel breathes.

“Yeah,” Quinn says. She lets out a long breath. She just wants this thing to be over, she wants two seconds of her life to be uncomplicated and easy. “Me too.”

“Well, good luck.”

“Thanks. I love you.”

“You too,” Rachel replies and Quinn can practically feel her wife’s smile, feels the answering tug on her own lips.

“Bye,” she lets out before closing the phone and walking back to the table and sliding back in next to Santana.

They get another round of drinks from Joe despite his hesitation and Quinn turns to her friend, gearing up to force Santana to talk about what the hell is going on. They need to deal with this Brittany situation and they need to deal with it now. Santana was always shit at handling her own feelings.

But before she can get any words out, the phone rings on the table and Santana fumbles around trying to reach for it.

Quinn scoops it up before Santana can break any glassware and puts it to her ear, deftly avoiding Santana’s drunken grabs for it.

“Santana Lopez’s phone,” she answers.

“Fabray? It’s Puck.”

“Oh hey, Puck. What’s up?”

“Is Lopez there? Tell her we got another envelope and I’m heading to the station right now,” Puck replies.

“We’re at Rick’s, but I don’t think she’s in any shape to move.”

Santana grabs for the phone but Quinn ducks out of the way. “What are you doing at Rick’s at two in the afternoon?”

“Just come by here first,” Quinn demands, hanging up before Santana can get to the phone.

“Puck’s on his way,” she says to Santana. “You got another envelope.”

Santana falls heavily onto the booth and exhales loudly.

Quinn meets Joe’s eye from across the room and mouths the word _water_ to him and holds up two fingers.

\--

Puck arrives not soon after and Quinn watches him greet Joe as he makes his way to the booth, flinging the rain water out of his leather jacket as he moves.

He drops into the booth across from them. After a semi-amusing, but mostly depressing conversation about why Santana is basically drunk off her ass in the middle of the afternoon while a scary mafia mercenary is after Brittany, he slides an envelope across the table in front of them.

“It’s actually good that you’re here,” he says to Quinn and dread hits her like a punch.

The fear spikes through her at the look on Puck’s face. He looks worried and tentative and so not like himself that Quinn wants to throw the envelope right back at him. She doesn’t want it to be good that’s she here if it’s in connection with this ominous envelope Puck’s pushing towards her.

Santana makes a move for it, but fails, predictably, so Quinn shoves her to the side and picks it up off the table, opening it up and sliding the contents out. It’s a black and white photo, and her stomach drops as recognition crosses over her.

What started as an inkling of fear flares up hot and fast in her system as her eyes take in the photo.

She expected Puck’s apprehension to be about Santana. That in the envelope was news about Pike or Brittany or both and that Santana was about to do something ridiculous and it was good Quinn was here to restrain her. It was good because maybe Santana was in trouble and that was what was in the envelope or any other reason except the one staring her in the face.

It’s the worst possible scenario and she isn’t prepared for it at all.

The photo is of Brittany, that much she expected. And there’s Nemo, walking along beside her. She recognizes the street and can almost pinpoint a date but that’s not what’s concerning.

There, next to Brittany and laughing like she doesn’t have a care in the world is _Rachel._


	4. Part Four

Quinn hates the rain. It’s always raining in this city and Quinn _hates_ it. Right now, the sound of thunder is nearly deafening, the puddles under her feet are too deep to really be called puddles, and the lightning makes her jump each time it flashes across the dark landscape, sawing along her stretched-too-thin nerves with little finesse.

And then there’s Santana, sagged against the brick wall outside of Rick’s and glowering at the whole world. For some reason, in this one singular moment, Quinn hates Santana the most.

She’s going on about Rachel, which is completely normal, but there’s a harshness in the words that’s laden with scotch and nicotine and it scratches against Quinn’s nerves like sandpaper taken to raw skin.

Rain drips off the overhang above them and she flips her phone open and closed, her leg twitching in fear and her brain trying to tune out Santana, trying hard to understand where the words are coming from and not react like she wants to. Because what she wants to do is shove Santana’s face into the brick wall, to make her shut up about Rachel for five seconds because Quinn’s vision is going red and she’s trying not to let all her irrational emotions take over her.

But then Santana breaks the last straw and actually has the gall to imply Quinn would be _better_ without Rachel, could survive without her, actually speaks the words aloud and mentions Rachel and Pike in the same sentence.

She’s pissed and terrified and Santana needs to get the fuck over herself. _Now._

So her hand whips out and smacks right across Santana’s already bruised face, cutting her friend off mid-sentence. She should probably be shocked, chagrined, and apologetic but instead hitting Santana feels good. She feels all that emotion snap out of her and seeing Santana’s head whip to the side as a result satisfies her.

“Christ!” Santana shouts. “I already have a damn black eye, Fabray.”

“I get that this is hard for you, that you slept with Brittany and she’s in your apartment and that’s hard. I get it,” she says, low, calm and angry. She jabs a finger out towards Santana and can’t stop the words from coming out, all the things she’s wanted to say to Santana for a long time. “I get that you’re drunk and depressed but let me tell you something. Get over it,” she commands. “Fuck her, kill her, marry her finally. I don’t care. Figure it out.”

Santana’s face is blank and stubborn and to avoid hitting her again, Quinn grabs the lapels of Santana’s trench coat and pulls their faces together.

“So you slept together,” she continues, seething. “So fucking what. It’s probably because that girl is still just as in love with you as you are with her but you’re being too much of a dumbass to do anything about it.”

Santana squirms in her grasp but Quinn tightens her grip and shoves her back against the wall, feeling the muscles in her own arms clenching tightly at the overwhelming urge to do something much worse. “Figure it out, Santana. And stop taking it out on everyone else. Or I’m going to stop cleaning up the pieces and then you’ll really be shit out of luck.”

The moment is tense and harsh and when Quinn looks into Santana’s eyes it’s like they’re not even looking at Quinn, like this moment where Quinn wants everything she’s saying to _land_ and _hurt_ , Santana doesn’t even care. Brittany coming back should have mended them together, should have sealed all the cracks in their lives, but instead it feels like having Brittany back is tearing them apart.

Anger keeps her gaze locked with Santana’s until she hears a car door slam behind her and Puck is standing next to them.

“Are you guys going to make out? Because if so, I’d like to grab my camera,” he says, breaking the silence.

Santana shoves her away and Quinn lets her, steps back and clenches her jaw when Santana shoulders past her and grabs Puck.

Quinn turns, steps out into the rain, and presses on towards home.

\--  
 _  
Quinn took the job at the prosecutor’s office for a multitude of reasons. She had to leave her old job, she had to, but she could have taken a number of other big firm jobs. She was more than qualified, had a near sterling reputation and enough money to draw out the job search for a reasonable amount of time._

_But she knew they needed prosecutors and she knew a guy who knew a guy that could put in a good word for her._

_She went after the job part from guilt, part from some messed up redemption complex she had suddenly developed. If she could spend the rest of her life putting people in jail maybe she could make up for the all the people she unknowingly and knowingly kept out of jail. It was idealistic and naïve but she took the job to do some good._

_She lost her first case on a Tuesday, just a few weeks after taking the job. Losing was new for her. Statistically she was one of the most successful lawyers in the city so hearing the words not guilty ring through the courtroom sent shock through her system like a rush of cold water._

_It wasn’t a huge case, but it wasn’t insignificant either. It was your standard homicide – poor young college student, just moved to the big city, slept with her windows open. The guy broke in, took all her stuff while she was right there in bed and then stabbed her seven times._

_He wore a mask, there weren’t any fingerprints and no other witnesses. It was a hard case to begin with and the ex-boyfriend they ended up arresting, despite having a pretty shoddy alibi, was hard to connect to the facts on record. Reasonable doubt was a bitch sometimes._

_She should have seen it coming, but it still hit her like a ton of bricks, leaving her to stare wide-eyed at the jury foreman and jump back when the judge smacked her gavel decisively._

_The rest of the day was a blur. All she could think about was the implications of what losing meant, of the justice she failed to bring for the victim, that she let a murderer back out onto the streets, that even the best of intentions couldn’t stop evil._

_At dinner that night, across the table from Rachel at their favorite Indian restaurant, she felt almost robotic. And she couldn’t stop staring at her wife._

_Eventually it got kind of awkward._

_Rachel reached out and grabbed her hand, eyeing Quinn’s untouched curry. “Quinn, are you okay?”_

_“Hmm,” Quinn blinked. “What?”_

_“You’re staring at me,” Rachel said, setting her fork down and leaning forward. “While I understand that my beauty and fame can be overwhelming to some people I’d think you’d have had enough time to get over the shock of it all seeing as we are married and everything. Right now, the staring has gone from flattering to kind of creepy.”_

_It startled Quinn out of whatever trance she was in and she glanced around the restaurant. “Sorry,” she said, pulling her hand out from under Rachel’s and picking up her fork. She looked down at her food and tried to decide if she could actually stomach eating it._

_“Don’t apologize,” Rachel said with a shake of her head. She twisted her fingers around the stem of her wine glass. “You just seem off. Is there something wrong?”_

_“No, I just,” Quinn lifted her head but the words got caught in her throat when she looked at Rachel._

_They were still young and while they certainly weren’t in college anymore, that young victim could have easily been them._

_She learned in law school to separate emotion from the job, to see things in black and white. The law was a blunt instrument and getting too emotionally invested in the cases would hamper her ability to remain professional and get the job done._

_But right now, with her loss looming over her and staring into Rachel’s concerned eyes, she couldn’t help but see the pictures shift - the gruesome crime scene photos filled with blood and bed sheets and a corpse – shifting into her house, her home, her Rachel. And it was all the same._

_It was just another violent crime in a city where that was as normal as the sun rising and setting._

_“Quinn?” Rachel’s voice broke through her thoughts and Quinn had to shake her head quickly._

_“Sorry,” she repeated, reaching for drink._

_“Did something happen?”_

_Quinn ran a fork through her rice and shifted her foot forward under the table, the toe of her shoe hitting Rachel’s. “I lost a case today. A homicide.”_

_“Oh,” Rachel said, tilting her head a little bit. “I’m sorry.”_

_It felt pitying and placating and Quinn had to rub her eyes to resist the urge to snap at her wife. “Whatever, I’m just distracted.”_

_“Quinn.” Rachel’s voice was soft and understanding and it butted up against Quinn’s self-loathing painfully._

_“It’s fine,” Quinn interrupted. “It was just a long day.”_

_She grabbed a piece of bread from the middle of the table and ripped it into pieces, staring at her food the entire time._

_“You’ll get the next one, baby,” Rachel said, low and entreating, her foot settling on top of Quinn’s under the table, tapping down to emphasize her words._

_Quinn shook her head. “Santana’s face…”_

_“Santana did the best she could,” Rachel said. “So did you. Santana knows that. You’ll get the next one.”_

_Quinn took a deep breath and dropped the bread onto her plate. “It doesn’t matter. It won’t change this case, it won’t stop this guy from killing again.”_

_“You can’t stop every bad thing from happening to everyone. You did the best you could; you can’t spend so much time dwelling on the past. It will drive you crazy.”_

_This time Quinn looked back up at Rachel and for a moment it felt like they were talking about something else entirely, something deeper and darker and Quinn tightened her fingers around her knife._

_After a brief moment of forcing her breathing to stay even she deflated and looking into her wife’s eyes admitted, “I thought it would feel different.”_

_Rachel took a sip of wine. “That what would feel different?”_

_“This job,” Quinn said softly, knowing Rachel was really the only person who would know what she was talking about. “I thought it’d feel better.”_

_“You’re doing a good thing, Quinn. You’re not always going to win, but you’re still saving a lot of people. You’re helping to put a lot of bad people in jail. You have to focus on the wins, not the losses and do the best you can for each victim. That’s all you can do.”_

_Quinn raised an eyebrow at her wife and twirled her knife around on the table. “When did you become all wise?”_

_With a coy shrug of her shoulder and a flip of her hair, Rachel smirked at her. “I was born this way.”_  
  
\--

She wants to go straight home, but she doesn’t. About three blocks away from Rick’s, she stops and sags against the brick wall of an apartment building, the rain beating down on her head and dripping into her eyes.

She can’t show up at home like this, can’t let Rachel see her so out of sorts. She needs to collect herself, take a deep breath and put on a brave front. Then she can just deal with this Pike thing on her own and keep Rachel out of it.

Rachel was supposed to be the one thing untainted in her life. The one thing not touched by darkness. Everything else was dark and twisty and she doesn’t think she can handle Rachel getting sucked into it all.

Plus, there’s a good chance she’s overreacting. Puck had a point back at the bar. They know Pike is after Brittany, Santana had said as much and that was the general chatter at work. She had seen the files, had read the reports. Pike was after Brittany.

Rachel could just be a coincidence.

But Rachel had a point too. Quinn’s a pessimist. She can’t help it. Life has taught her that just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean there isn’t a dark figure lurking around a corner waiting to kill you. She can’t shake the feeling that this is just her life kicking her in the ass once again.

She takes a deep breath, kicks at a puddle beneath her feet and blinks up into the rain.

Rachel was her shot at something new, at something pure, her everything, really. She could start a family that wouldn’t be broken down by this city, by its people, with Rachel. Pike can’t take that away from her – she won’t let him.

She pushes off the wall and starts walking again. When the rain starts to ebb away she tries not to take it as a sign from God. That’d just be too optimistic.

\--

She calls Puck just as she’s getting home.

“Fabray, miss me already?”

“I want a copy of that picture,” she orders.

“Babe,” Puck replies. “You know that’s not how it works.”

“Get me a copy, Puckerman. And soon.”

“Listen, I can’t do that and you know it,” he says, starting to sound a little annoyed.

“You can do it and you will do it,” Quinn responds, walking up the steps towards the front door. “Or I’ll tell everyone about your little problem last week with that bartender over on 8th street. What was her name again? Maggie? Melissa?”

“Okay, okay, shit, Q,” he interrupts and Quinn smiles at her victory. “No need to get nasty.”

“I won’t have to as long as you bring a copy of that picture by my place with your report.” She pauses as she fishes her keys out of her pocket. “Oh, and don’t say anything to Rachel.”

“No, no, whoa, hang on,” he sputters. “Do not get me involved in any of this shit. If you want to go behind Berry’s back, do it yourself.”

“I’m not going behind anyone’s back,” Quinn retorts. “Just keep it quiet if she asks what you’re doing there.”

“Oh hell no,” Puck replies. “I am not getting in between you and that shorty you sleep with. Chick is crazy.”

Quinn pauses outside her door, keys in hand and rolls her eyes. “First, don’t call my wife crazy. Second, who knew Noah Puckerman was scared of a little girl? Sure the guys around the station would love to hear that.”

“Fuck you, Quinn. I’m a badass,” he replies. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

Quinn hangs up and opens her door, a smile on her face that she doesn’t feel.

\--

When she gets in the front door, she puts her coat up in the closet right off the entryway before ambling towards the small noise of a television downstairs.

Rachel’s on the living room couch when she turns the corner off the staircase, a coffee mug in her hand and half the contents of their kitchen on their coffee table. Even though Quinn would much rather have all of Rachel’s expensive vegan…things in the fridge, the sight of her wife sends a rush of warmth crashing through her and she smiles despite the haphazard mess.

“Hey,” she greets, happy with how steady her voice sounds.

Rachel’s head snaps towards her and she smiles. “Hi!” Quinn sits down when Rachel scoots over a little and pats the cushions on the couch.

They don’t say anything, but Rachel maneuvers herself down so she’s snuggled against Quinn’s side, sipping her drink and watching the television across the room. Quinn eyes the food all over the table and tries to figure out why it’s there.

“How’s Santana?” Rachel pulls the blanket down from the top of her couch as Quinn toes her shoes off. The warmth of Rachel against her side feels so out of context from the last few hours and Quinn tries to focus on it, tries to hold on to it, and tries to not think of the way her hand felt when it smacked across Santana’s face.

“Fine,” she answers, trying to keep her body from tensing up or anger from bleeding into her voice.

Of course, Rachel has some secret psychic ability so she pulls up a little to look at Quinn and sets her mug on the coffee table, right between a jar of pickles and a tub of peanut butter that Quinn vaguely remembers being ordered to get at two in the morning about a week ago.

“Yeah?” Rachel eyes her in a way that says _there’s no way I believe that_ , but Quinn just nods and smiles tightly.

Before Rachel can say anything else Quinn kisses her. After years of dating Rachel Berry, Quinn knows it’s really the only effective way to get the other girl not to talk.

“Mint tea?” Quinn asks as she pulls away, the taste of Rachel’s mouth still on her lips.

“I wasn’t feeling well,” Rachel replies, licking her lips and eyeing Quinn’s mouth.

Quinn laughs and glances back at the spread on the table. “Was that because you ate half our kitchen?”

Rachel narrows her eyes. “No, I wasn’t feeling well before that.”

Chuckling, Quinn brings her arm over the back of the couch, her hand settling in Rachel’s hair. “Sorry.”

“You should be,” Rachel laughs. ‘Now tell me what you don’t want me to know.”

Quinn jerks back slightly. “What?”

“Your eyes are doing that thing they do when you’re worried about something,” Rachel says, her own eyes darting back and forth over Quinn’s face.

The TV is playing some old musical that Quinn recognizes from Rachel’s DVD collection and she studies it for a second before answering. “It’s nothing really,” she lies. “I just got into it a little with Santana and I’m worried about her.”

It takes a second but Rachel buys it and Quinn lets out a sigh of relief.

“She’ll be okay,” her wife replies, fingers playing with the bottom of her sweatshirt. “She’s just worried about Brittany and the whole Pike situation.”

“Yeah,” Quinn agrees, swallowing against a lump in her throat. “I know.”

The mention of Pike and of Brittany makes her clench her fists and tense up and it takes everything in her to restrain from bolting up off the couch and grabbing Rachel, their suitcases and buying two tickets to the most remote island she can find.

“Okay,” Rachel says, scooting around to face her. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” Quinn replies, shaking her head.

“Nuh-uh, I’m _pregnant_ , not stupid,” Rachel says. “And that look on your face right now is way more than worry about Santana.”

Her eyes blink slowly as she stares at the movie playing on the screen and she forces herself to become professional. She’s a lawyer, a damn good one, and manipulating the truth is her bread and butter. She knows it’s wrong to do this with her wife of all people and she knows how bad it will be if Rachel catches on, but she’d rather keep Rachel in the dark than tell her about her paranoia.

The last thing Rachel needs is more stress and the last thing Quinn needs is to make this fear any more real than it already is. Telling Rachel out loud would definitely make it more real.

“I smacked her,” she said, turning a steady gaze to her wife. The best lie is one masked in truth. “I hit Santana.”

Rachel’s brow furrows. “What?”

“I hit Santana,” she repeats, shaking her head and swallowing. “Things are getting crazy.”

Rachel reaches a hand over and cups Quinn’s cheek, her thumb stroking down her face. “Why did you hit Santana?”

“She was being a bitch.”

An eyebrow arches on Rachel’s face. “Santana’s _always_ a bitch.”

Quinn chuckles at the distaste in Rachel’s expression as she says the last word. “Well she was being bitchier than usual and I just lost it,” Quinn clarifies. “I think it’s just this whole Brittany thing, it’s fraying my nerves.”  
 Rachel nods, her hand stroking up into Quinn’s hair as she turns into Quinn’s shoulder and yawns. Just like that, Quinn’s mood shifts.

“Tired?” She grabs the hand Rachel has in her hair and holds it between them, stroking her fingertips across Rachel’s palm to twist at the ring on her finger.

Still yawning, Rachel shrugs and shakes her head. “I’m okay.”

“Let’s take a nap,” Quinn suggests.

“I’m fine,” Rachel argues, finally done yawning.

Quinn bites her lips and pulls out a weapon she knows will work. “I could use one and I sleep better with you here.”

Rachel’s gaze narrows like she thinks Quinn’s playing her, but she smiles and shifts around, gesturing with her arms that Quinn join her.

They maneuver until Quinn’s sprawled out on the couch and Rachel plops down between the cushions and Quinn’s side, snuggling into her neck and dropping a leg between Quinn’s.

It’s warm and soft and Quinn sinks into it, blocks out the dark reality and focuses on the here and now and the steady beat of Rachel’s heart against her chest.

\--  
  
 _When Santana’s parents died, her father came to tell her the news. It was sunny that day, the birds were chirping and Quinn had plans to spend the day at a baseball game. Santana’s parents had season tickets to some AAA team that played not too far out of town and on lazy spring weekends, Santana, Brittany and Quinn would drive out there, eat way too many hot dogs and watch mediocre, but nonetheless exciting baseball._

_She had jeans and her softball jersey from middle school on, a baseball cap in her hands when her father knocked on her door, pushed it open and told her in a soft voice that he had something to tell her._

_When he told her that Mr. and Mrs. Lopez died in a car crash, it was almost clinical and detached. There was no emotion in his voice - no shock or sadness. Just fact and certainty, like he was delivering the six o’clock news._

_Quinn dropped down onto her bed and stared at her carpet with wide eyes. She didn’t even hear her father leave the room._

_She didn’t know how long she sat there, just staring, but eventually she shook out of it, grabbed her phone and called Brittany._

_“I think she’s done crying at least,” Brittany said when she answered._

_“I’m coming over,” Quinn said._

_“Okay.”_

_Halfway out the door her father stopped her. “Are you going to see your friend?”_

_She nodded and shifted back and forth on her feet, eager to get going._

_“I’ll come with you,” he said._

_She didn’t have time to think it was weird, but by the time they got to Santana’s house, a bouquet of flowers her father insisted on getting in hand, Brittany turned them away with a sad shake of her head. Brittany’s eyes shifted guiltily to Quinn’s father and she knew exactly why Santana didn’t want to see them._

_They left the flowers in the kitchen and as they were turning to leave, Brittany grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “Sneak back,” she whispered._

_Quinn nodded and left with her father._

_\--_

_After dinner that night, Quinn opened the window to her bedroom and followed a path she had on more than one occasion. She ran the few blocks between their houses, skipping through familiar lawns and into a familiar backyard._

_Creeping around to big tree outside Santana’s window and climbing it was instinct. Halfway up she realized she could probably just go to the front door. There were no parents to sneak around anymore after all. The thought was sobering and depressing and Quinn felt totally off balance._

_She managed to make it through the window, dropping down into Santana’s bedroom and shutting it behind her. Her friend was on the floor, her back against the wall and she had a small green rubber ball in one hand, throwing it against the opposite wall and catching it as it flew back._

_Quinn watched the ball fly through the air a few times and waited for Santana to acknowledge her. When she didn’t, Quinn caught the ball and stepped in front of her friend._

_“Where’s Brittany?”_

_Santana pressed her head back into the wall and stared up at her, a redness to her eyes and exhaustion in her shoulders. “Downstairs,” she answered._

_Quinn raised an eyebrow before moving to sit down on the floor next to the other girl. “Why?”_

_“Making cookies I think,” Santana said, shrugging. “Fuck if I know.”_

_It was silent after that and Quinn didn’t really know what to do or what to say and she hated how comatose Santana seemed, so unlike the friend she knew that she didn’t know how to react. Santana was a bitch, a major bitch (and so was Quinn, really, so that worked out), but she wasn’t ever really this, this weird, silent, robotic thing that just stared at the opposite wall._

_Quinn didn’t know how to make it better despite a fervent desperation to do just that._

_She rolled the ball around in her hands and turned her head to look at Santana. “I’m sorry,” she said. “About your parents.”_

_Santana swallowed loudly and her fists clenched but she didn’t move her gaze towards Quinn. “Shit happens,” she bit out._

_Quinn darted her hand out and grabbed Santana’s fist, opened her mouth to say something, but before any words came out Brittany opened the door, the warm smell of cookies wafting in behind her._

_Brittany took one look at them, walked over to the other side of Santana and reached out to grab her other hand, setting a tray of cookies down on the floor._

_Santana didn’t move, didn’t say anything, didn’t really acknowledge either of them but she didn’t shrug their hands away and the three of them sat there in silence._

_Hours later, Brittany’s head on Santana’s shoulder and Quinn nearly asleep, Santana said the first thing that night that wasn’t an answer to a question._

_“The cookies are cold.”_

_Brittany jerked up and stared at her girlfriend as Quinn turned to her, glancing down at the plate of cookies Brittany had brought up earlier._

_The two blondes locked gazes and Quinn knew there was confusion on her face._

_Santana started laughing, deep, loud laughter from the pit of her stomach that only made Quinn more confused._

_She didn’t stop laughing either, not for long minutes and it wasn’t long before Brittany joined her, confused giggling pouring out of her. It made Quinn chuckle too._

_Eventually Santana took a deep breath, wiping at her eyes as her laughter trailed off. She set her jaw and turned to look at Quinn, a smile on her face._

_“Okay,” she said, before grabbing a cookie and standing up. “Let’s go do something.”_

_“It’s the middle of the night,” Quinn said, standing up._

_“So?”_

_Brittany stood up as well, also grabbing a cookie on her way._

_“So, don’t you, I mean, shouldn’t we,” Quinn stumbled on the words, feeling completely out of her element and not knowing what was going on._

_Santana stared at her, her expression serious again. “My parents are dead.”_

_Quinn’s jaw dropped open in surprise and she jerked back. “S, I’m so sorry,” she started, but Santana held up a hand to stop her._

_“Don’t say sorry. That’s fucking stupid. I’m sick of people saying that to me,” Santana said. “There was nothing you could have done, don’t apologize for something you didn’t even fucking do. You can do something for me now. You can fucking do something with me so I can stop thinking about it, okay?”_

_“Yeah,” Quinn said, nodding. “Okay.”_

_Brittany grabbed Santana’s hand and smiled at Quinn. “Let’s go do something.”_

_Santana took a deep breath. “Let’s.”_  
  
\--

The doorbell rings and Quinn jerks awake, blinking sleepily as she looks around. Her neck aches where it’s jammed up against the arm of the couch and Rachel’s sprawled on top of her, snoring softly. She wraps her arms tightly around her wife and shifts out from under her, turning to lay Rachel back on the couch.

Her wife mumbles and licks her lips as they move but doesn’t wake and Quinn presses a kiss to her forehead before moving quickly upstairs towards the door as it rings again.

Puck steps past her when Quinn opens the door and looks around, presumably for Rachel.

“She’s asleep.”

Puck lets out a bark of laughter. “Guess I don’t have to deal with shorty, then.”

Quinn rolls her eyes and holds her hand out. “Did you bring it?”

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out an envelope, passing it to Quinn wordlessly.

The picture is there inside when she opens it and Quinn’s hands shake a little when she sees it again. “Thanks,” she says.

Puck winks and grins. “You owe me,” he says with a leer.

“Go away,” she commands.

He laughs again but backs up and puts his hands up. “Don’t do anything dumb,” he says when he gets to the door.

She whips her head up to look at him. “What does that mean?”

He shakes his head. “Everyone fucking thinks Santana’s the one that does stupid shit when she’s pissed and scared but you’re like a fucking sleeper cell. Don’t try and act like you asked me for that just to stare at it some more.”

“I just wanted a copy,” she replies, glaring at him.

“Yeah sure, whatever. Just remember what your fucking job is,” he warns.

“I know my goddamn job, Puckerman, now get out of here.”

His expression darkens and he takes a step forward. “I’m serious, Fabray. Cop,” he says, pointing to his chest before pointing back at her. “Lawyer. You gotta let us do our jobs. You go off and do something stupid and get yourself involved in this mess you will break Santana, do you hear me?”

Quinn exhales through her nose and stares at him.

“The last thing she fucking needs right now is to be worried about shit with you too, okay?”

“I know,” she whispers, pride flowing out of her all of a sudden, and she feels her shoulders drop a little. She glances to the staircase, and pictures Rachel snuggled into the couch, curled into herself. “I just wanted to take a look at it, honestly. This involves me now too and an extra pair of eyes can’t hurt.”

Puck reaches out and sets a hand on her shoulder, his expression serious and unmoving. “We’re going to take care of this; you don’t have anything to worry about. That’s how it works. We catch the bad guys and you find them a nice spot up at the county prison.”

She nods. “Yeah, I know,” she says even though she’s having a hard time trusting in that system right now.

Puck leaves and Quinn walks back down the stairs and watches Rachel sleep, her wife’s fingers clenching and unclenching on the fabric of the couch, before Quinn retreats to her office.

\--

In the lower left drawer of her desk there’s a false bottom. It may be a little paranoid to have a false bottom drawer on one side and a locked drawer on the other, but that’s beside the point. She keeps random stuff in there, stuff she doesn’t like other people to see but nothing too incriminating. The only thing she’d rather Rachel _not_ find is the unregistered pistol hidden towards the back.

There’s a small pack of ammo next to it and Quinn raises her eyes to the door to her office before pulling it out and placing it next to her. She runs her fingers over the tips of the bullets and takes the gun out, the weight of it heavy in her palm.

She’s always been a good shot as a result of hunting trips with her father as a child and then later when Santana and Puck decided it was imperative she learn how to shoot a gun. In another closet in their house there are licensed guns – a few rifles and pistols, even an old revolver from Puck, guns that Rachel knows about and demands be kept away from her numerous awards and _her_ in general.

This one was a gift from her father and something she both hates and loves at the same time. When she got it, she didn’t think anything of it, she didn’t understand how gun laws worked and frankly, she trusted her father, didn’t think he could do anything wrong.

When she found out differently, she still kept it – for whatever reason she couldn’t get rid of it. She’d shot it a few times when she was younger and used to play around, but it hasn’t been fired in years.

As she shifts the gun around in her hand and eyes the bullets a dark wave washes over her and a cold sweat breaks out across her body. She can understand wanting to kill Pike – but she’s sitting here with a goddamn illegal weapon in her hand while her wife is asleep in the next room like she’s going to _do it_.

What the hell _is_ she doing?

The picture of Rachel and Brittany is lying on her desk, staring at her like a dark omen and she swallows against a bitter taste in her mouth.

She doesn’t know how long she sits there holding the gun and staring at Rachel’s smiling face, but she snaps out of it eventually.

After throwing the gun back in the drawer along with the ammo, she stands up and nearly slaps herself. The glass of scotch she throws back soon after settles warmly in her stomach and she sends a silent prayer to a God she's having a hard time believing in.

\--  
  
 _When Santana got shot, Quinn was in class. Puck was waiting for her afterwards, leaned up against the wall outside her classroom with a grim expression._

_She jerked back in surprise when she saw him.“Should I be creeped out that you know my class schedule?”_

_He didn’t even crack a smile, or a leer or any of the other normal Puck faces. It was one of the more suspicious moments of her life._

_“We gotta go,” he said, pushing off the wall and walking towards her. He latched on to her elbow and pulled her down the hall._

_Her eyebrows shot up and she pulled away from him abruptly, nearly hitting a passing student with her elbow. “What the hell, Puck?”_

_“We gotta go,” he repeated, glaring at her and cocking his head down the hallway._

_“Have to go where exactly?” She shifted her bag on her shoulder._

_“The hospital,” he said and she could see the way his jaw was clenched and the red around his eyes._

_Then, feeling like a complete and total idiot for not putting two and two together and getting four, she looked around him. “Where’s Santana?”_

_Puck took and shallow breath. “We gotta go,” he said._

_Her eyes went wide before she shot down the hallway toward the exit._

_\--_

_“Why didn’t anyone call me?” Her voice was low and angry and she fought tears that were threatening to fall._

_Puck slid his hand up and down the steering wheel and tapped his fingers on the gear shift between them as he drove. “She was in surgery. I waited until we knew she’d be okay to call Brittany and then…”_

_“And then what?” Quinn shifted to look at him._

_“I was about to fucking call you but I decided you’d need a ride anyway.” Quinn watched him swallow as his eyes took in the road and the car sped up a little. “So I just came over and got you.”_

_“You should have called me right away,” Quinn replied._

_“There wasn’t any time,” Puck answered, glancing at her briefly. “It all happened really fast.”_

_“What happened exactly?”_

_“It was dumb,” Puck mumbled. “The guy had fucking lucky pure, dumb luck. If I had been there two seconds earlier…”_

_Quinn put her hand over his and held tight. They were silent the rest of the ride._

_\--_

_Quinn barreled through the hospital hallways, turning a corner and nearly tripping when she spotted a familiar figure standing outside one of the rooms._

_“Britt,” she let out as she grew closer._

_Brittany’s head snapped up to look at Quinn, a relieved sag noticeable in her shoulders as she did so. “Quinn.”_

_“Hey,” Quinn said softly, stepping in front of her. “You okay?”_

_Brittany bit her lip and looked down the hallway, smiling at Puck as he passed them to enter the room before looking back at Quinn. “I don’t know,” she admitted._

_Quinn nodded and swallowed thickly before pulling Brittany towards her into a tight hug. The taller girl pressed her forehead down into Quinn’s shoulder and clenched her fingers into Quinn’s back._

_“It’s going to be okay,” Quinn murmured even though she didn’t really feel it. She itched to get inside and see Santana alive for herself, but she could feel the way Brittany was shaking and it felt good just to stand there for a minute._

_Finally they detached from each other and Quinn took a long breath, looking into Brittany’s eyes. “You okay?”_

_Brittany nodded but Quinn could see the lie. There were tears forming in the bottom of Brittany’s eyes and she was biting down on her lip to stop them from falling._

_Quinn glanced towards the door to the room and strained her ear to hear Puck and Santana talking. She wanted to go in, but just hearing Santana speaking was calming her nerves and she needed to take care of Brittany too. Santana wasn’t around to do it._

_“Let’s go get coffee,” she said, linking her arm through Brittany’s and steering her away._

_\--_

_On the lower level of the hospital, next to the entrance to the heart institute, there was a 24 hour McDonald’s. Quinn liked to poke fun at the irony, but as she tugged Brittany inside and ordered two coffees (one with double cream, double sugar) she was grateful for its existence._

_They sat at a table near two big windows in the back of the restaurant and Brittany turned to watch the collection of nurses smoking outside, gathered together under an overhang to escape the rain._

_Quinn watched them too for a moment, sipping her coffee and letting the liquid warm her body on its way down._

_After awhile she broke the silence. “Do you know what happened?”_

_Brittany bit her lip and spun her coffee cup around on the table. “Um, she was off-duty,” she replied, her voice kind of shaky. “She was supposed to meet Puck for drinks and she stopped into that mini market for cigarettes, you know, near Rick’s?”_

_Quinn nodded as her leg bobbed under the table._

_“And, um,” Brittany looked outside for a second before looking back. “There was a guy in there with a gun.”_

_Quinn knew the store well, Santana stopped in there a lot to grab cigarettes or a post-work energy drink. She could almost imagine the scene without Brittany having to say anything more._

_“She tried to stop him,” Brittany chuckled. “Duh.”_

_Quinn laughed a little and took another sip of her coffee while Brittany cleared her throat and scraped a nail across the table._

_“Anyway, um, he had a friend,” Brittany continued. “Santana says he came from her right and he got her before she even had a chance to see him.”_

_Quinn nodded, feeling her eyes burn at the image of a bullet hitting Santana. She looked down and steadied herself on a deep inhale._

_All of a sudden Brittany’s hand was over hers, warm and solid on the table and Quinn’s head came up to look at her. “It’s okay Quinn,” Brittany said, a small smile on her face. “Sometimes bad things just happen.”_

_It was strange to have the tables turn that quickly, with Brittany all of a sudden comforting her but she let the words sink in nonetheless. Looking into Brittany’s blue eyes, she could hear the rain from outside, see Puck’s face awash with guilt and pain and almost imagine Santana in that market – there only by chance._

_Quinn pursed her lips and shifted her eyes to study the rain again. “Yeah, I guess they do.”_  
  
\--

Santana shows up not that long after Quinn hides away in her office. Her friend stumbles through an atrocious apology and while the urge to smack Santana again still simmers underneath her skin, she takes a deep breath and forgives her.

They’re in a bad place right now and Quinn feels like it’s just the beginning. It’s a dark, ominous feeling, a low pressure at the base of her neck and the last thing she needs right now is to be at odds with Santana.

Her fingers are tracing the picture Puck brought over when Santana finally notices it. Pointing to it, she asks, “So, what did Berry say about the picture?”

She opens her mouth to say something, to cover up the fact that she hasn’t told Rachel about it at all, but nothing comes out and Quinn kicks herself because _come on_ she’s built a career on being able to talk her way out of situations.

“You haven’t told her,” Santana says, her voice surprised and accusing at the same time.

“No,” she admits, pursing her lips as she sets the picture down and leans back.

“Q, I know Berry. She won’t like that.”

“Yeah,” Quinn agrees, the image of her wife red-faced and indignant both adorable and worrisome. It brings a small smile to her face. “Probably not.”

“Tell me what?” Rachel’s voice breaks in and Quinn jumps up in her chair. “What won’t I like?”

“Nothing,” she blurts out, her eyes widening when she realizes how telling that answer is.

“Quinn Fabray.” Rachel draws the name out and darkens her expression. “Tell me.”

The picture under her fingertips feels hot and huge and she wants to crumple it up and throw it in the trash, but she looks at Rachel’s face and decides full disclosure would be more beneficial in the long run. She slides the photo across the desk towards her wife and points at it, waiting for Rachel to come over and pick it up.

“Pike’s been following you.” She swallows. “Well, he’s been following Brittany and you. And we don’t know why.”

Rachel studies the picture and Quinn watches the expression on her wife’s face, tries to stop her heart from beating faster when she thinks about what that picture could mean.

“You’ve seen my legs, right?” Rachel asks suddenly, holding the picture out for inspection.

Santana laughs from her seat and Quinn gives a small smile, before narrowing her eyes at her wife. “Rachel. I’m being serious.”

“And so am I,” she argues. “This is a picture of me and  _Brittany_. There's been no other proof that he's singled me out, right?” Quinn sees Santana shake her head. “Right, so he was watching Brittany and saw her associating with her wealthy, successful and highly attractive friend, Rachel Berry, who happens to be married to the equally successful and famous attorney, Quinn Fabray.”

Quinn smiles and shakes her head, but Rachel continues on, looking at Quinn like she really shouldn’t have to explain the obvious to her.

“What self-respecting photographer wouldn't take the picture? Even stalkers have standards. As much as it pains me to admit, and I assure you it does, I highly doubt he's actually after me." 

Santana agrees with Rachel and if it were any other situation Quinn would spend more time being shocked at that but the desperation to get through to Rachel is too strong. “Still, we don’t know for sure and until then we have to be on our guard.”

Rolling her eyes, Rachel comes to sit on Quinn’s desk, reaching out to trace a finger over her eyebrow. It was a familiar, comforting gesture that Rachel liked to use to calm Quinn down.

“It’s cute that you’re worried about me.”

When she feels Santana open her mouth and she can already hear the nasty jibe about to come out, she cuts a glare in her friend’s direction to shut her up before refocusing on her wife. “Rach, this guy is serious,” she explains, trying to convey how important this is. She runs her hand up Rachel’s thigh before stopping at her hip, her thumb tracing over the edge of Rachel’s stomach. “I don’t want to take any chances, not with you.

She sees it work, hears the resigned sigh escape Rachel and lets out her own breath of relief.  "Fine, but I have a very busy schedule to maintain. We're starting up full rehearsals this week and I can't have your little stalker paranoia interfering with the show's production." 

Quinn gets Rachel to agree to be more careful but she can’t fight the worry that hums through her veins, the desperate need to steal Rachel away, lock her in a closet until all this is over. When Rachel drops a kiss on her forehead, she has to clench her fists tightly against the urge.

Rachel leaves to make them something to eat before Quinn loses restraint and she focuses on Santana, pumping calm into her body, and she tries to act like her heart isn’t in the other room.

“Look,” Santana says, cutting into her thoughts. “Why don’t you guys just come stay with me and Britt for awhile.”

It’s kind of shocking that Santana would offer that, but Quinn can’t deny how appealing the offer is. Santana’s got cops all over her building and she’d have two more sets of eyes watching Rachel. Being with friends would be nice and secure and beyond all that it’s an excuse to see Brittany. She doesn’t know how long that opportunity will last.

They walk out to collect Rachel and head out when Quinn finds the courage to ask the question that’s been burning in her mind ever since Santana showed up in her office.

“How’s that going by the way?” She crosses her fingers that maybe her two best friends have figured their shit out, but she stops the hope from going farther.

Santana looks away and furrows her brow, her whole stance emanating confusion and Quinn doesn’t really know how to read that. “S’okay I guess.”

Quinn raises an eyebrow. “You guess?”

“I don’t know,” Santana replies, finding something seriously interesting on the wall – a wall filled only with wedding pictures Quinn knows hold absolutely zero interest for Santana, as she was there and spent most of her time complaining and the rest of it ignoring Rachel. “She’s…she’s still in love with me.”

Quinn feels happiness flood through her quickly and a smile spreads across her face. She already knew Brittany was still in love with Santana, but if her friend is admitting it here that means they’re getting somewhere, it means Brittany at least said something and maybe Santana did too. It means _something._

It’s clear from the way Santana talks and the way she looks sheepish and confused – a state only Brittany could put her in – that her friends haven’t figured it all out yet, but Quinn lets that little piece of hope Rachel instilled in her grow. It’s hard to keep control of it, but she manages.

When they get to the kitchen she’s still smiling, thinking that maybe that dark ominous feeling she had earlier was really just paranoia, just the unbalance caused by all the crazy things that had happened lately.

But then Santana twirls and looks confused and it’s then that Quinn realizes the space is empty. That Rachel, who was supposed to be cooking, is nowhere to be found.

Her stomach drops, and turns over and she feels like her heart is going to bust out of her ribs with how fast it’s beating.

“Rachel?” Quinn yells out, watching Santana look around for the girl too. When nothing greets her call, her throat goes dry, but she repeats the name, hoping Rachel maybe went to the bedroom for a nap, or ran to the bathroom or _anything_ but what she thinks happened, anything but confirmation that this dark feeling creeping up her spine is something real and terrible.

She takes a deep breath and tries to convince herself that it’s just paranoia again, that she’s just overprotective and a complete spaz right now and she needs to _calm the fuck down._

She’s halfway out of the kitchen, heading towards the bedroom when Santana calls her back in and points to a note on the table. Rachel’s handwriting is distinctive even from paces away and Quinn knows exactly what it says before she even reads it.

It’s not that she’s psychic or anything, but there are just times in her life when she knows exactly what’s going to happen like a movie playing in her mind. Quinn had learned early on that if there was a worst possible situation, chances were it would happen to her. It had been this way since she was a kid and right now, when the sharp sound of screeching tires burst through the kitchen and a woman’s yell following soon after, Quinn feels her vision waver and her knees give out.

She can see it all clear as day and even though she's inside, far away from whatever's happening outside, she knows it's Rachel. She can feel it on every inch of her, and it feels like her heart stops in that moment.

It takes a second before she’s bursting out of the kitchen and out the front door, knowing her worst fears are about to come true, just like always.

She hears Santana’s footsteps behind her, beating out the door and down the steps but the sound gets drowned out when she gets to the street.

Strangely, the first few seconds of taking in the scene feel detached and distant, like she’s walking any number of crime scenes she had seen in her life. There’s blood and terrified witnesses, confusion and curiosity thrumming through the crowd and in the middle of it all, a victim.

Quinn doesn’t see Rachel. Not really. She sees brown hair and smooth legs and her whole _world_ , spread out across the pavement, bleeding.

Her knees hit the ground near Rachel but she doesn’t register pain. Instead she just stares at her wife and runs her hands in the air, clenching her fingers absently, unsure of where to put her hands. She feels helpless and shocked and she keeps thinking that maybe if she could just wake up, this nightmare would stop feeling so real.

It’s supposed to be paranoia. Strange, irrational paranoia bred from her job, from her hyper exaggerated protective instincts and from a deep distrust of humanity. It isn’t supposed to be _real_ , it isn’t supposed to actually happen. They’re supposed to laugh about this, years from now, laugh about how worried Quinn was when nothing terrible happened.

Santana is barking into a phone behind her, but for some reason all Quinn hears is the sound of Rachel singing. Like _actually_ singing.

It’s this weird, suspended reality type of moment because Rachel’s lying in front of her, a pool of blood spreading under her hair and a streak across her forehead. Her eyes are closed and her lips aren’t moving but Quinn hears it clear as day. Santana’s saying something to her from her position behind Quinn but the words are drowned out, swept away in place of the round flowing tones of Rachel’s voice.

It’s some stupid song that Rachel likes to sing in the mornings, in the shower or in the kitchen. It’s always the same song. No matter where Quinn hears it, on the radio, on TV, in the elevator at the mall, it always reminds her of mornings – of early morning sunlight, the smell of brewing coffee and the sound of Rachel’s laughter in her ear as she interrupts the singing with a kiss.

It’s absurd, but she can’t shut it off and the sound of it actually makes everything that much worse because Rachel’s lips aren’t moving and her eyes aren’t opening and the only thing keeping Quinn from passing out right now is the slow but steady movement of Rachel’s chest.

She focuses on that, watches it move up and down and her hands grab one of Rachel’s, happy to find it warm and soft.

“It’s going to be okay,” she murmurs, leaning down over her wife and clutching her hand closer to her chest. “It’s going to be okay.”

Suddenly, the sound of sirens cuts through her thoughts, stopping the sound of Rachel’s singing abruptly and Quinn wonders for a second how long she’d been kneeling there.

Santana grabs her arms and pulls her up but she resists the tug, dropping all her weight and scrabbling to hold onto Rachel’s hand, unwilling to be separated from her.

“No,” she mumbles, pulling away from Santana. “No.”

“Q,” Santana says, wrapping her hands back around Quinn’s biceps and bringing her mouth close to Quinn’s ear. “They gotta get her to the hospital. You have to move.”

She swallows and her eyes widen, but she lets Santana pick her up and move her away, her hands feeling cold without Rachel’s between them. In a heartbeat, her wife is surrounded by paramedics, setting down a stretcher and boxes of medical supplies Quinn can’t identify.

Her eyes sting so she brings up her hand to rub at them, brow furrowing when her fingers come away wet. She hadn’t even noticed she was crying.

The paramedics are lifting Rachel up on a stretcher, black straps holding her into place and Santana lets go of her arms as they both move towards the ambulance. They let her into the back of the truck with little fuss, but one of the medics holds his hand out to Santana, halting her.

“Sorry, detective, family only,” the guy says and Quinn almost wants to ask how the hell he knows _she’s_ Rachel’s family until she realizes being one of the city’s most famous power couple has its advantages. Between Rachel’s career and her own they may be overexposed but Quinn’s never been happier for it than at this moment.

Santana jerks back, her eyes darting to Quinn and her mouth open in protest, but Quinn shakes her head to silence her.

She wants Santana to come with them, that’s for sure, but she needs to leave as soon as possible, she can’t have an argument that would stall them right now. Every second they sit there not moving feels like an eternity and Quinn feels the life bleeding out of Rachel just as tangibly as she would her own.

The guy is wrong, Santana’s family and Quinn needs her, but right now her sanity, her happiness, everything she’s ever cared about is laying on a stretcher with a head wound.

“Do your job,” Quinn commands, her voice shaky as she stares at Santana. “You have to do your job.”

Santana locks gazes with her and nods once, jaw clenched. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Quinn swallows. “I know,” she says, before turning to the medic near the door and saying that they’re ready to go.

Santana turns on her heel and flips her phone back open, walking over to a few uniformed cops that arrived with the ambulance.

The doors close and the truck starts to move, the silence deafening, as Quinn focuses once again on the rise and fall of Rachel’s chest and tries to ignore the ache in her own as they ride to the hospital.

She’s never felt more lost in her entire life.


	5. Part Five

  
_Quinn married Rachel on the twelfth day of the third month of the year in a small, unassuming courthouse not ten blocks from where they lived._

_At first Rachel had wanted a big, huge, star-worthy (Rachel's words, not Quinn's) ceremony but Quinn had talked her down off that ledge and they had managed to compromise. Quinn would get her small, clandestine courthouse wedding that her parents would not be attending and Rachel would get her massive, fabulous, grandiose reception the week after._

_When they left the courthouse, Quinn checked her watch, tangling her fingers with Rachel and glancing up into the light rain that was drizzling over the city. Rachel moved to turn right towards their building but Quinn tugged her in the other direction, smiling at the way Rachel bounced backwards with the pull and let out a surprised yelp._

_"Quinn!" Rachel gasped indignantly. "What are you-"_

_"Surprise," Quinn interrupted, walking backwards as she held Rachel's hand. "Go with it."_

_The honeymoon wasn't planned for a few more weeks - it made more sense with their work schedules, - but Quinn couldn't resist giving them this at least. She was greedy by nature and she'd like to have her_ wife _to herself for a few days before she had to really share her with the world. Plus, Rachel planned the honeymoon and Quinn just…she just needed to give Rachel_ something.

_Rachel shook her head, but smiled and leaned into Quinn's side when she turned to face forward. They walked briskly down the sidewalk and Quinn waited for Rachel to figure out where they were headed. It was kind of a long walk, but it was a familiar one and Quinn knew it'd be worth it._

_Ten minutes into their stroll, Rachel finally realized where they were going and she gave a little jump as they walked, an excited laugh erupting out of her that put an even larger grin on Quinn's face. "The Plaza?"_

_Quinn nodded and grinned at Rachel. "The Plaza."_

_"Like Eloise," Rachel breathed._

_"Like Eloise," Quinn repeated, still chuckling softly._

_"I love the Plaza," Rachel continued, practically bouncing as they walked down the sidewalk._

_"I know you do."_

_"Why are we going to a hotel?" Rachel asked suddenly._

_They crossed an intersection and Quinn looked up into the sky before smiling down at Rachel. "Maybe I just want you to myself for a few days."_

_Rachel beamed at her, bumping into her side and humming softly. "We're staying there a few days?"_

_"Until Monday," Quinn answered._

_They reached the grandiose entrance of the historic hotel and Quinn held the door open as Rachel stepped into the lobby, her wife's eyes going wide as she took in her surroundings as if it were her first time here._

_Check-in was quick and Quinn led Rachel to the suite she had picked out months and months ago. As they walked up to the set of white double doors, Quinn wrapped her arm around Rachel's shoulders and bent over to scoop her up with another arm under her knees._

_Rachel let out a surprised sound before wrapping her arms around Quinn's neck and laughing. "What are you doing?"_

_"Tradition," Quinn responded, bending down a little to get one of her hands around the doorknob and pushing it forward._

_"In case you hadn't noticed," Rachel whispered as if she were telling Quinn a deep, dark secret. "This marriage isn't exactly traditional."_

_Quinn laughed and walked into the gigantic suite, kicking the door shut behind her. "Humor me."_

_Rachel turned and looked around as Quinn set her back on her feet. "What are we going to do here for four days?"_

_Blowing out a deep breath, Quinn wrapped her arms around Rachel from behind and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "There are about six rooms in the place and a terrace," she answered. "I plan to make good use of every single one of them."_

_Her palms slid over Rachel's stomach and around to her back as the girl spun in her arms. Rachel twined her fingers together behind Quinn's head and gave her the sexiest smile Quinn had ever seen. Her knees went weak a little and she backed her wife up against a nearby wall._

_"A terrace, you say?" It was an understatement that Rachel had a strong attachment to anything but the norm on the sexual playing field. Terraces were a particular weakness Quinn had discovered on a vacation to Miami in their first year of dating._

_"Yup," she replied, kissing a trail down Rachel's jaw and onto her neck._

_"Can we start there?"_

_Laughing, Quinn bit down lightly on soft flesh and ran her hand down Rachel's back to settle on her ass. "We have four days, what do you say we give this entryway a go?"_

_Rachel's neck moved under Quinn's lips as the other girl swallowed and she smiled into the flesh, scraping her teeth down the smooth column. "Yeah that could work for me."_

_"I thought so," Quinn replied, pulling away to look at her wife. Just thinking with that word, looking at Rachel and realizing they were married was pumping hot desperation all through Quinn's body. It was an overpowering feeling and she didn't resist it all._

_"I love you," she whispered against Rachel's lips._

_"Good thing," Rachel replied, pressing their lips together hard and quick. "Because you're kind of stuck with me now."_

_A wide grin spread across Quinn's face and she found herself lost in smiling brown eyes._

_"Sounds perfect," she said, before sliding her palm up Rachel's back to pull down the zipper of her dress._

_By Monday morning they did hit all six rooms (Rachel was always diligent about to-do lists), and they got to the terrace. Five times._  
  
\--

In the first twenty minutes after Rachel gets wheeled into her hospital room, all Quinn does is stare. Her eyes have trouble blinking and her body can’t move and it hurts to swallow. She just stares straight ahead, keeping her eyes focused on Rachel’s face, on the way she can see her chest moving up and down and the faint beeping from her heart monitor.

She can still hear the doctor’s words in her ear. _Your wife should be fine, we’re keeping an eye on the baby, but we’ll know better in the morning. We'll know better if she wakes up._

Her knee starts to shake.

She feels her face contort in pain and she can’t handle it anymore.

It’s completely, utterly ridiculous. She’s stood toe-to-toe with serial killers, stared down the most intimidating CEOs, and has endured a stab wound to her thigh without so much as wincing. Yet here she is completely _toppled_ by a short brunette lying in a bed in a stark white hospital gown.

Standing, she walks over to the bed, running fingertips over Rachel’s arm slowly when she gets there.

In reality, it shouldn’t shock her so much. This was all bound to happen.

She can hear Santana and Puck outside the room talking about Pike and witnesses and the car that hit Rachel and Quinn tries hard to block them out. She knows it was Pike. She knows exactly what happened without taking any witness statements or reading any reports.

She knew it the moment she held the picture in her hand.

It’s hard not to make it more than it is. There’s a paranoia deep inside her that says Rachel getting hit isn’t random, that it isn’t just Roger Pike being a crazy bastard, but she stamps the feeling down hard. If it’s true, if her worst fears are actually coming true, than this is far from over and the implications are staggering.

Rachel’s eyes are closed and her breathing is even as Quinn trails her fingers down to clasp her wife’s hand. Now that she’s calmed down past the initial shock and despair all she can feel is pain and the desperate need for revenge. A thousand scenarios flit through her brain - most of them involving her unregistered pistol and an abandoned warehouse on the edge of town.

If Rachel were awake right now she’d probably have something wise and comforting to say and she’d remind Quinn that everything was going to work out just fine and through all Quinn’s cynicism and natural distrust in this world, Rachel would make her _believe._

But Rachel’s not awake. She’s pale and unmoving and Quinn feels the urge to kill something, to make something bleed just to even the score. It’s a scary, overpowering feeling and Quinn has to sit down again, pulling the chair she had abandoned close to the bed. All she can do is sit, and hold her wife’s hand.

And she sits there for a long time, the beeping from the monitors sounding loud in a room full of Rachel’s silence.

It gets to the point where she can’t stand it anymore and she just needs to leave. She needs to be as far away as possible because she’s angry and pissed and scared and about two seconds from a breakdown. She needs to get away despite wanting to do nothing but lock the door and crawl into bed next to her wife and hold her until she wakes up.

She bolts upward and strides out of the room. Her three friends are all standing there and she stops to stare at them, her eyes traveling down to see Brittany’s hand firmly clasped in Santana’s.

It’s a dark, terrible moment but Quinn hates the sight of Brittany so close to Santana, hates the calm that’s starting to be restored in Santana’s face and the love she still sees in Brittany. She hates it because her friends fucking had a chance, they had thirteen years of chances and happiness and Quinn feels like it’s so unfair.

So unfair that Santana can just give up, can just throw Brittany away like that and it all comes back together, it just fixes itself and Santana’s world is restored.

She turns to leave before she says something terrible.

Santana’s voice calls after her. “Where are you going?”

“Taking a walk,” she bites out, turning slightly.

“Fabray,” Santana starts but Quinn needs to leave. She needs to leave and she can’t have Santana follow her.

So she puts up a hand to stop her best friend. “No, Santana. I really am just going to take a walk. I could use the air.” It’s half-truth half-lie but Quinn just needs it to stop Santana.

It works. “Okay.”

Quinn turns back to the hospital room and her eyes start to tear up as she sees Rachel again. “Could you just watch Rachel please?”

Brittany responds affirmatively but Quinn can’t look at her, can’t look at the way she’s cuddled up next to Santana.

She turns again and walks away as fast as she can, trying as hard as she can to think of anything but Rachel and failing miserably.

\--  
  
 _When Rachel finally said yes to her proposal and meant it (seven times after the first try), the day wasn’t really special at all._

_It was a nothing day. An absolutely, boring, ordinary, insignificant day._

_Neither of them had to go into work and they had spent the day being lazy – something so rare for them that Quinn marveled at the simplicity of it all. The sun streamed in through the window and she could almost feel the seconds tick away slowly on the grandfather clock two floors below them._

_At the moment, Quinn was in bed - the place she had actually spent the last five hours in. A half-done crossword from the morning paper was propped against her knees and Rachel had her head on Quinn’s stomach, a script held over her eyes for some small part she got on a procedural drama. Her girlfriend had exactly seven lines in the whole episode yet all Rachel had done that day was read over those lines, reciting them under her breath more times than Quinn could count._

_She shifted the newspaper to the side and ran her fingers over the brown hair falling across her stomach. Rachel didn’t acknowledge her, but her head moved slightly to the side, leaning discreetly into Quinn’s touch as her eyes moved rapidly over the white pages in front of her._

_Doing something so mundane as reading the paper and lounging in bed felt like the most perfect moment in Quinn’s life and she was overcome with the need for it to be permanent, for Rachel to have a place in her life as solid as the heart in Quinn’s chest and blood pumping in her veins._

_Rachel must have sensed Quinn’s stare because she turned her head to look up at her, the script in her hands falling to her lap as she arched an eyebrow._

_“Whatcha doing?”_

_Quinn swallowed and let her eyes roam over Rachel’s face, her fingers still tangled in long brown hair. “You have to marry me,” she said, her voice deep and soft and full of all the love she had ever felt for this girl in their bed._

_Rachel’s brow furrowed and she shifted slightly to study Quinn better. Their gazes locked and a smile played over Rachel’s lips._

_White teeth scraped across Rachel’s bottom lip. “Yeah?”_

_Quinn smirked and tilted her head to the side. “Say yes.”_

_Pursing her lips, Rachel thought about it for a moment. “Interesting approach.”_

_Quinn turned and reached into her nightstand drawer, pulling out a small black box and setting it on her chest for Rachel to look at._

_“I can’t live without you,” Quinn intoned. “Marry me.”_

_There was no down-on-one-knee, no jazz band behind her, no epic poem or video slideshow or anything other than the rumpled sheets of their bed and the sound of cars rushing outside their window._

_Rachel took a deep breath before pressing her lips against Quinn’s._

_The whispered “Yes,” that came after was one of the greatest moments of Quinn’s life._  
  
\--

She makes it out the back of the hospital near the emergency room doors and veers left, passing the psych ward door before collapsing around the corner, sheltered in the small alleyway between the hospital and the children’s hospital.

Her head pounds, overwhelmed with thoughts and pain and memories and Quinn has a hard time seeing straight. To the right, just past the end of the alley, she can make out the small playground that sits outside the children’s ward. There are a few kids out there today, taking advantage of the small reprieve from the rain. Quinn looks up and observes the sky. They don’t have much longer until it starts pouring again.

She looks at the kids again and she can’t help it. Thoughts about her own kid rush into her brain. Of what it will look like, how it will act, all the things she wants to teach it. She didn’t want a baby when Rachel first proposed the idea. It was actually the last thing she wanted. The idea of having a baby, of being responsible for something, of bringing a person into this terrible world they all live in had been terrifying.

But when Brittany left and everything Quinn ever believed in broke, she needed something to hope for again. And most of all, she wanted to give Rachel absolutely everything she wanted. _Everything._

So now here she is and she should have known it would all break again. Everything breaks, nothing is stable.

Her wife is in a hospital bed and they’re having a baby. She’s having a baby. With Rachel.

Or she was. She doesn’t know now. She doesn’t know anything.

Life is so fragile and she feels it breaking like a crack in her chest.

“I might deserve this,” Quinn seethes, talking to no one. “I might deserve this but she doesn’t. She doesn’t deserve this.”

The clouds are silent as she looks upward and feels contempt for a God she’s believed in nearly all her life.

“She doesn’t deserve this, you bastard. What the hell did she do to you, huh? Fucking nothing.”

With a low breath she looks down again, twirling until she’s facing the brick wall. She’d give anything to be the one in the hospital bed right now, she’d give _anything._

“It’s me right?” Quinn asks, chuckling darkly as her fists clench and her foot kicks out against brick. She pushes closer and presses her forehead against the wall, the brick cutting into her forehead. The pain feels good and Quinn presses harder, unable to stop hot tears from dropping down her cheeks. “This is punishment for being happy, right? For one fucking second of happiness. One thing.”

A choked sob escapes as she drops to her knees.

She’d sacrifice anything to make Rachel okay, absolutely anything. Even if it meant she never met Rachel, had never fallen in love, never gotten married, never decided to start a family together.

\--  
  
 _The first time Quinn asked Rachel to marry her was an accident. And she didn’t really ask so much as she suggested._

_Yeah, it was pretty much a disaster from the get-go._

_In her defense, it totally was not Quinn’s fault. At all. In fact, Quinn’s pretty sure it was Rachel’s fault. If Rachel didn’t act like they were already married in the first place Quinn wouldn’t have had unnecessary word vomit with the partners at her firm. So yeah. Totally Rachel’s fault._

_It happened in a millisecond. One minute she was chatting with her boss about where she went to school and how her father was doing when he asked if she was married. She said yes without thinking and by the time Quinn thought to backtrack or correct herself her boss was already inviting her and Rachel to his weekend home next month._

_So whatever, they were pretty much already married in the first place. Quinn didn’t really see what the big deal was with just walking over to city hall and making it official in the next few days. She’d get to tie the knot with the love of her life and save face with the boss. It was win-win._

_And, okay, sure. Maybe the way she presented the whole idea wasn’t the most eloquent thing she’s ever done. And yeah, maybe she should have known better after nearly three years of being with Rachel Berry but honestly she was really more concerned with the man who signs her paychecks seeing through her embarrassing lie._

_She was pretty sure that in a few years they’d all sit around and laugh about this. Rachel, however (and Quinn should have expected this), didn’t feel the same way._

_“What did you just say to me?” Rachel stepped off her elliptical machine and pressed the off button on the stereo near her work out equipment._

_“I said we should get married,” Quinn repeated, wringing her hands together._

_Rachel’s mouth dropped open, then closed again and Quinn found herself talking before she could stop it._

_“It’s just, we’re practically already married. And I sort of already told some people at work that we were married and we might as well just put it all down on paper and call it a day. I love you, you love me. What’s to think about?”_

_Rachel blinked and her mouth dropped open again as she crossed her arms over her chest. “I can’t believe you.”_

_Not the tone Quinn really wanted to hear. That tone usually meant bad things. Like the couch and lectures and silent treatments. “What?”_

_Brown eyes narrowed into a glare. “Was that a proposal? Are you under the impression that was a marriage proposal?”_

_“Um,” Quinn stuttered. “Yes?”_

_“No.”_

_“No,” Quinn repeated._

_“Quinn Fabray!” Rachel exclaimed. “I’m sweaty and gross and it’s the middle of the afternoon and asking me to marry you so you can cover for some ridiculous Freudian slip does not constitute as an adequate proposal!”_

_“Rachel,” Quinn tried, propping her hands on her hips._

_“Do you really want the story of our marriage to start that way? Is that the tale you want to tell the celebrity gossip pages?” Rachel took a step towards her and mirrored her pose. “Or the society section of the Sunday paper?”_

_“What the hell are you talking about?”_

_“That proposal is not befitting the star I am nor the star I will become, and if you can’t come up with anything better than that then you’ve clearly learned nothing over the course of our courtship.”_

_“Did you really just say courtship?” Quinn chuckled. She tried not to focus on the part where she was pretty sure her marriage proposal-suggestion thing was getting rejected._

_“Quinn, either try again or call your boss up right now and tell him the truth,” Rachel huffed._

_“Don’t be ridiculous, Rachel.”_

_“I’m not being ridiculous!” Rachel exclaimed. “Excuse me for wanting to feel like my future spouse actually wants to spend the rest of their life with me instead of proposing as some sort of atrocious cover up!”_

_That completely sobered Quinn and she dropped her arms to the side and stared straight at her girlfriend. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want that,” she whispered._

_Rachel’s shoulders sagged and she’d smiled softly before stepping up to Quinn and and pressing the sweetest kiss to her lips._

_“Then ask me again sometime,” Rachel whispered. “When you get it right I’ll say yes.”_  
  
\--

It takes her a long time before she regains her composure, but she channels all her depression and all her desperation into anger. She lets it pump silent, calm rage through her and it puts strength into her legs as she stands. She can make it back inside. She can go and sit next to Rachel and hope for the best and wait it out. She can do it without breaking down now.

Plans. Plans are good. Plans help her focus.

She’ll make sure her wife is okay. She’ll make sure her kid is okay. Then she’ll fucking find Roger Pike and put a bullet between his eyes.

A raindrop hits her cheek as she stands and takes a deep breath. The sound of laughter whips her head to the right again and she watches a little boy chase his friend around a slide.

She needs to calm down. She’s got a wife and a kid and a career and it would be beyond stupid to let some obsessive need for revenge take all that away. The desire is there but she grabs a hold of it before it consumes her. She can almost hear Rachel’s voice in her head lecturing her on how ridiculous she's being.

She spares another glance towards the playground before turning to walk back inside the hospital, a new plan forming in her head. She might not be able to kill Pike herself, but she knows someone who could - who would do anything for her.

It feels wrong, horribly wrong, that she would ask this of her best friend but really, it’s her only option.

\--

Santana is coming out of Rachel’s room when Quinn steps around the corner. She beelines for her without hesitation and grabs her arm, pulling them both towards the nearest door and out into an empty stairwell.

“What the hell, Q?”

She looks out the window to make sure no one followed them because she needs to get through to Santana and she needs it to stay here, stay secret.

Twirling to face her friend, Quinn grabs her friend and pushes her into the wall, pressing close and staring unblinking into Santana’s eyes. She pumps as much seriousness into her gaze as she can and pleads with Santana silently to understand.

“You find this guy,” she commands in a low voice. “You find him and you kill him. Slowly and with a great deal of pain. I don’t care how, just do it. Promise me he’ll feel it, promise me you’ll end it.”

She needs Santana to understand. Needs her to understand exactly what she’s saying. It’s not about justice anymore it’s about revenge and she needs Santana to do what Quinn can’t - as much as it’s killing her.

She sees it register on Santana’s face, sees the way her friend breathes in and nods a little before bringing her hands up to Quinn’s cheeks.

“I promise,” Santana says, her voice calm and steady. “I promise.”

Quinn exhales in relief and in the empty silence of the stairwell, with her best friend holding on to her and her wife across the hall in a bed, Quinn breaks completely.

\--  
 _  
Barely a month after becoming_ official _with Rachel, they actually broke up. Rachel blamed Quinn. Quinn blamed law school._

_Well, more accurately. Quinn blamed finals._

_Finals were_ hard _. The first year of law school was all about weeding out those that weren't really serious about the endeavor they had embarked on and as a result the first two semesters are the most difficult - the most reading, the toughest classes, the most impossible finals._

_Quinn was smart. Like off the charts smart and she had a natural aptitude for the kinds of tasks she faced in law school. But she was also not so great at managing stress at this point in her life and when the pressure of finals settled firmly on her shoulders, she snapped. And Rachel ended up drawing the short end of the stick._

_It had been about a week, four days, seven hours, thirty-six minutes and fifteen seconds since Rachel threw her hands up, said "We're through" and stormed out of Quinn's apartment. Quinn had been miserable for about a week, four days, seven hours, thirty-five minutes and fifteen seconds of that time._

_Having Rachel around all the time had driven her insane at the beginning of finals period. She felt like Rachel was this extra obligation that she had to entertain and feed and deal with and it was just taking up too much time and she lost it. But now, in her apartment with the silence and the lack of Rachel she felt totally empty and she was actually having a harder time concentrating._

_It sucked. It absolutely sucked._

_Not to mention, she never realized how much of a stress reliever Rachel was. When Quinn studied at home, Rachel would make her lunch, buy her these energy drinks Quinn knew she disapproved of, or give her the best head massages she'd ever had. Then, when Quinn lost track of time and the birds outside started their morning chirping, Rachel would tug her upstairs and put her to bed and there would be snuggling - Rachel was really good at snuggling - and she just missed the girl._

_Quinn missed Rachel and she didn't know what to do about it. It's not like her friends were any help either. Santana had just laughed and laughed and laughed until Quinn pushed her over into a snow bank and Brittany just tilted her head to the side, all confused and said "Well why don't you just go find her and apologize?"_

_She stared at the clock near her desk and tapped her highlighter against her open book. It was nearly three in the afternoon and she was hungry and bored and if she had to read another word about vicarious liability she was going to scratch her eyes out._

_Yawning, she threw her highlighter down and shut her book, stretching as she stood and turned to leave._

_It was cold outside and she had to watch where she was walking so she didn't slip on ice and fall on her ass. Two blocks later and she made it to her favorite little market, rubbing her hands as she stepped inside and smiled at George behind the counter._

_The freezers were in the back so Quinn headed straight there to grab a drink and a box of Hot Pockets. It wasn't a steak and a glass of wine, but it was cheap and easy and Quinn just wanted to buy her stuff and go back to her apartment where she was going to spend the rest of her afternoon depressed over Rachel and how she was totally going to fail out of law school._

_But then, like God just enjoyed causing her pain, the most adorable sound hit Quinn's ears and her chest squeezed as her heart recognized the laughter._

_Sure enough, as she turned back to the front counter, a box of Hot Pockets and a can of Red Bull in her left hand, her now ex-girlfriend was standing there, laughing at George and hitting him on the arm endearingly. Quinn just stared in shock and despite her brain screaming at her to move before Rachel saw her, her feet wouldn't obey. Rachel was bundled head to toe, a light flush to her cheeks, a hat pulled over her ears, and a scarf hanging down over her jacket and the breath flew right out of Quinn as she took in how cute and sexy Rachel managed to look at the same time. Her eyes were starved for the sight and Quinn blinked slowly as she just stood there._

_As her laughter peeled off, Rachel turned, her jaw dropping as she saw Quinn._

_"Quinn," Rachel breathed._

_With a shake of her head, Quinn recovered and managed a weak, "Hey," as she moved to set her things next to the cash register._

_Rachel looked around the store and at George before turning back to Quinn again. "I was just," she stuttered and Quinn narrowed her eyes at the hesitant tone she wasn't used to hearing from Rachel. "George and Harriet came to one of my shows this week, I just came by to say hello," she finished._

_And that's when Quinn realized that this little market was way out of Rachel's neighborhood and the likelihood of them running into each other here was slim to none. She hadn't even thought of that before._

_"Oh," she said, glancing at George. "Cool."_

_She felt totally lame and anxious so she shoved a $20 bill at George before grabbing her stuff and making a move for the exit. "Nice to see you," she shot at Rachel._

_It wasn't that she didn't want to be around Rachel. On the contrary, she wanted it more than anything, but standing next to her, knowing that they weren't together anymore was too painful at the moment and she felt like between her overstressed nerves and her lack of sleep she'd do something stupid like cry._

_So instead, she was running away before anything ridiculous happened._

_Rachel caught up to her a block back towards her apartment._

_"Quinn!"_

_She thought about not turning around. Honestly. She thought about it for about three seconds but her stupid feet decided turning was her best option and she was facing Rachel before she could stop herself._

_"What's up?"_

_Rachel opened her mouth and closed it and seriously, when did Rachel Berry become hesitant and stuttering and speechless? Quinn felt a flutter of hope that maybe the reason was because Rachel was just as depressed and confused over their break up as Quinn was._

_"I just," Rachel started, stuffing mitten-hidden hands in her jacket pockets. "How have you been?"_

_She didn't mean to say it. She meant to say_ fine _. She meant to say_ good, how are you? _, but instead, like a lovesick idiot she said, "I miss you."_

_Rachel's eyes went wide and her jaw dropped open and Quinn nearly hit herself with the box of Hot Pockets she was holding but she'd already made enough of a fool out of herself. She needed to get home before she said something even more ridiculous._

_But before Quinn could turn and walk away again, Rachel took a step towards her on the ice and looked up into Quinn's eyes._

_"I miss you too," she whispered, her words almost lost in the cold wind that blew past them._

_It took a heartbeat for the words to sink in but when they did, Quinn didn't hesitate. She saw an opening and she dove into it._

_Her Hot Pockets and Red Bull hit the sidewalk with a crash as she stepped forward swiftly and pulled Rachel into her body, pressing their lips together. Warmth shot through her whole body as Rachel moaned at the assault and brought her hands out of her pockets to cup Quinn's face, the soft material of the mittens rubbing against her cheeks._

_Feeling Rachel's lips against her own was like a shock to her entire system and she felt exhaustion and hunger rush out of her and all she was aware of was Rachel's warm lips against hers and the way her laughter sounded and the way Rachel's coat felt clenched in her fists._

_Quinn didn't know how long they stood there on the cold, desolate sidewalk near her building but Quinn didn't care. Rachel was kissing her and her hands were pulling their faces closer together and she could really give a crap about anything else._

_She could feel a smile stretch against Rachel's lips as their kisses slowed and Rachel laughed, the sound settling deep in Quinn's heart._

_"I'm sorry," Quinn whispered into Rachel's lips. "I'm so sorry."_

_Rachel shook her head and kissed her again. "Let's not break up again."_

_This time Quinn smiled, wide and brilliant and she felt it all throughout her body. "Deal," she agreed._

_"Deals have to be sealed," Rachel suggested, rocking on her feet and grabbing the front of Quinn's heavy sweatshirt._

_Now, a different kind of warmth shot through Quinn and her heart flipped over. She grabbed Rachel's hand and turned to make her way back down the sidewalk. "Come on."_

_Hours later, in a bed of rumpled sheets as Rachel hummed a soft tune into Quinn's hair, she remembered her discarded bag of Hot Pockets and Red Bull still lying out on the sidewalk and laughed._

_By January, when fall semester grades came out, Quinn was at the top of her class._  
  
\--

Her knuckles hurt from punching Santana in the stairwell, though she only vaguely remembers the entire altercation, and her eyes ache from the sobbing. The back of her throat is dry and raw and Quinn feels like she’s run suicides for hours.

Brittany and Santana had already left and for that she’s actually happy. It hurts to see them together and she feels guilty for even feeling that way. It makes her hate Roger Pike all the more. She hates him for what he did to Rachel, for what he’s doing to Quinn and she hates him because she wants to be happy about her two friends getting back together after so long and she can’t be.

She wants to appreciate the way Brittany hugged her before she left, the way she told her in low, soothing tones that Rachel would be okay but all she could think about was how Brittany and Santana got to go home to their apartment and get into bed together while she was stuck in a spartan hospital room watching her wife’s heartbeat on a computer screen.

Quinn ran her hand over the sheets of the bed and let her eyes focus in and out on the blood over her knuckles. Santana’s blood.

Her chest aches and she needs Rachel to wake up before she goes crazy.

She gets up because sitting is making her crazy and walks out of the room. Coffee. Coffee would be good.

But just as she turns out of the door she comes face to face with Noah Puckerman, a cocky smirk on his face and holding a cup of coffee.

“Puck,” she greets, making no effort to cover the surprise in her tone.

He hands over the cup of coffee towards her. “Here.”

“Thanks,” she replies, even more surprised now. “What are you doing here?”

He glances towards the door she just walked out of before looking back at her, his smirk dropping a little. “Eh,” he says nonchalantly. “You know. Just thought I’d stick around.”

He says it like he has nothing better to do, but Quinn knows otherwise and she almost yells at him for not doing something productive like finding the psycho that just hit Rachel with a car. But he’s staring at her with concerned eyes and the coffee he handed her is hot and delicious and she’s just so glad that there’s someone here that doesn’t make her stomach turn over with guilt or worry or fear that she doesn’t mind.

Without volition her head falls forward into his chest and she breathes deep for a moment. “Thanks,” she whispers.

He brings a hesitant hand up to rub against her back and she can feel the muscles in his torso move as he shrugs. “Whatever,” he says. “Berry’s crazy but she’s our crazy.”

She knows it’s so much more than that and she almost laughs because Puck is so much like Santana sometimes it’s uncanny. Neither of them are ever emotional or upfront about their feelings but they’re unwaveringly loyal and strong and they’ve always been around when Quinn needed them. For a second, her thoughts drift to kid on the playground again and she wonders what her own kid will be like, how it’ll be affected by all the people in their life.

She soaks in the warmth from Puck’s hand on her back and breathes in the scent of his leather jacket and his spicy aftershave and lets herself be still for a long moment.

\--  
  
 _Rachel wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a Friday night hook-up. Admittedly, that hook-up hadn’t all the way hooked, so they had met again and finished what they started. And sure, the conversation was enjoyable, the sex was awesome and Rachel would probably make a really fun girlfriend but Quinn had a firm no-relationship policy. They hadn’t served her well in the past and she wasn’t going to let dating affect her concentration in law school – she had goals, a plan and a new girlfriend didn’t really work in to it._

_Quinn was perfectly fine with that. Apparently Rachel wasn’t._

_She figured this out about the fifth time Rachel just happened to be in the same place Quinn - places Quinn would never expect Rachel to be. She brushed the first few times off as a coincidence (though seeing the Jewish girl at Quinn's church one Sunday was pretty telling), but when Rachel happened to show up in the law library on a Saturday morning Quinn started to get suspicious._

_Green highlighter in one hand, and a cold cup of coffee near her other, Quinn had her civ pro book open in front of her as she ran over the notes she had written in the margins. There weren’t many people in the library this early so when someone passed her desk not once, but twice, Quinn took notice out of curiosity._

_It took a second for her to recognize the other girl but on the second pass-by Quinn was able to put the short skirt, tan legs and long brown hair together._

_“Rachel?”_

_Rachel jumped in surprise and turned towards Quinn, a wide-eyed look of innocence on her face. “Quinn! What are you doing here?”_

_Leaning back in her chair, Quinn narrowed her eyes in confusion. “What are_ you _doing here?”_

_Rachel tilted her head to the side and chuckled. Shrugging, she took a step towards Quinn and leaned her hip against the side of Quinn’s desk. “I’m researching a role,” Rachel explained._

_“A role,” Quinn repeated._

_“Yes.”_

_“What role?” Quinn asked with a quirk of her eyebrow._

_Rachel bit her lip and her eyebrows came together for a second. “Elle Woods. From_ Legally Blonde. _It’s a musical you know.”_

_“You’re going to be Elle Woods?” Quinn threw her highlighter on the desk before crossing her arms and staring up at the brunette._

_“Well, no. But it’s always good to be prepared. Should I be given the opportunity to audition for the role I want any competitive advantage I can get. It only makes sense to start acquiring whatever skill sets I may need in my future as an actress,” Rachel said._

_Quinn nodded, her eyes flickering towards Rachel’s legs before returning to her face. “Right.”_

_“How have you been?” Rachel’s fingers played with the bottom of her sweater._

_“Good,” Quinn drew out._

_Rachel glanced down to the textbook Quinn had been reading. “Studying?”_

_“That’s what normal people do in a library, yes,” Quinn replied._

_Another step forward and Quinn had to fight the urge to look at Rachel’s legs again. The memories of their multiple times together were springing fresh to her mind, quickly and with a thoroughly distracting amount of clarity._

_Rachel reached over and closed the textbook before sitting down on the desk, her feet bumping against Quinn’s legs and her skirt riding up. She leaned forward, an elbow on her knee, as she crossed her legs and Quinn swallowed as she pressed her back further into the chair and forced her eyes to stay on Rachel’s face._

_“You want to take a break?” Rachel offered, smiling._

_Quinn bit her lip and weighed her options. She should probably be a little put off by the fact that Rachel was showing all the signs of some creepy, obsessive ninja stalker but in all honesty, Quinn was mostly flattered. Plus, Rachel was good in bed. Like, really good, and Quinn was a big fan of whatever stress reliever she could find._

_It wasn’t like hanging out with the girl meant they had to get married. They could be friends. Friends that have sex occasionally. Quinn could work with that and she was pretty sure she could get Rachel to agree to it to._

_“Yeah, sure. You want to get something to eat?” Quinn grabbed her bag off the floor and moved to put her book away._

_Rachel shrugged as she hopped off the desk and waited until Quinn had her messenger bag slung over her shoulder. She held a hand out and Quinn grabbed it out of instinct._

_“Why don’t we go to your place instead?” Rachel countered with a wink._

_It shot arousal straight through to her groin and Quinn just nodded as she tugged Rachel out of the library. Yeah, friends with benefits. This could work._

_Rachel laughed as they raced out of the library and down the block towards Quinn’s building. She didn’t stop laughing until they made it into Quinn’s apartment and Quinn shut her up by pressing her hard into the wall of the entryway as she dropped her bag to the floor._

_\--_

_Hours later, Quinn woke up from her post-coital nap and stretched out under the sheets of her bed, a comfortable ache lingering in her body. Rachel sat on the edge of the bed, her naked back facing Quinn as she fiddled with something in front of her._

_Quinn peered around the girl to see her own phone held in small hands._

_“What are you doing with my phone?” Quinn croaked, clearing her throat as she said it._

_“Putting my number in,” Rachel answered as she pressed a few buttons._

_“Why?” Quinn asked, wincing at how the question sounded._

_Rachel set the phone the bedside table and turned back into the bed, scooting back under the covers until she was pressed up against Quinn again. A smooth thigh slid over her own as Rachel palmed her stomach and pressed a warm kiss to her lips._

_“We’re good at this,” she whispered, her hand sliding up to rest between Quinn’s breasts._

_Quinn hummed and slid a hand behind Rachel’s neck, fisting the hair there and pulling her down into another kiss._

_“I figured,” Rachel said, between kisses. “You’d be amenable to doing it again.”_

_Quinn laughed as if the answer to that should be obvious._

_“Having my phone number,” Rachel whispered, her fingers tracing distracting patterns across Quinn’s collarbone. “Will make getting together easier. It’s a matter of efficiency.”_

_Quinn wanted to say something intelligent or maybe give Rachel a nice reminder that she didn’t want to be in a relationship but Rachel’s lips were really close to her own and her thigh was warm where it rested between her legs and really Quinn was having a pretty hard time concentrating._

_Years later, when she thought about all the times Rachel randomly bumped into her, about how each time it ended in hot, sweaty sex at Quinn’s apartment, and days later Quinn would find some property of Rachel’s laying around her bedroom (a shirt, an earring, her iPod, a shoe), Quinn could only laugh._

_It took years of getting to know her but eventually she realized Rachel had an agenda all along. And really, she kind of loved her for it._  
  
\--

Hospitals chairs aren’t the most comfy thing Quinn has ever experienced but she barely notices the pains and aches in her body at this point. Her head is propped up on her fist, an elbow on the chair arm as she stares at Rachel’s face, the fingers of her left hand twirling her wedding ring around on her finger. Pain shoots through her bruised knuckles but she ignores it.

Puck is parked outside in the hallway - despite it being way past visitor hours (boy had a way with nurses) - and she can hear the faint sound of his snoring from inside. It’s silent and still now, but Quinn feels like there’s a storm going on inside her.

The rain beats heavily against the window on the side of the room and she tries to let its rhythm lull her to sleep. But she’s always been terrible at sleeping anywhere but in her bed, next to her wife, and she’d be concerned with how co-dependent that sounds but she really doesn’t care.

She drops her head forward until it’s resting against the mattress of the bed near Rachel’s hand and she closes her eyes.

“Please wake up,” she whispers into the blankets. “Please wake up. You have to wake up, Rach. I can’t do this without you, please just wake up and be fine. Please, please.”

She presses her forehead further into the bed and squeezes her eyes shut tight. “I swear I’ll do anything, just please wake up. I need you to be okay. I need you to be okay.”

It’s fervent, mindless rambling and Quinn is only half aware of what she’s saying. She’s lost in paranoia and fear and all the other emotions left in her now that the anger and the thirst for revenge have left.

“You can’t take her. You can’t take her from me. Please don’t, please make her wake up. You can have anything, just not her.”

She’s so caught up in her pleading that she nearly jumps right out of her chair when a hand touches her hair and a soft, scratchy voice whispers her name.

Her eyes snap open and her head whips up and her chest tightens when she sees wide, gorgeous brown eyes staring right back at her.

“Rachel,” she breathes.

Rachel’s brow furrows and she winces before she’s smiling. “Ouch,” her wife lets out, raising her eyebrows.

Quinn grabs Rachel’s hand and despite tears of relief that are currently streaming down her face, she laughs. It’s this weird awkward moment of crying and laughing and Quinn’s head falls forward against the bed again, her hand still clutching at Rachel’s as she forces air into her lungs.

“Baby,” Rachel croaks, her voice getting stronger.

Quinn picks her head up and brings Rachel’s hand to her lips, smiling into the skin there as she looks at her wife. “Hi,” she whispers.

“Hey,” Rachel replies with a crooked smile. “You okay?”

Quinn barks out a laugh at the question and swallows against tears. “Yeah,” she says, pressing Rachel’s hand into her cheek. “I’m glad you’re awake.”

“A car hit me,” Rachel says, her forehead scrunching up again as she looks around. “That was rude.”

The memory of Rachel spread out across the pavement punches back into her and Quinn inhales sharply as she squeezes her wife’s hand harder.

“Quinn?” Rachel asks, her eyes narrowed and alert all of a sudden.

“Yeah,” Quinn says, her voice cracking and the tears coming on stronger.

“Come here,” Rachel orders, tugging on Quinn’s hand and shifting a little in the hospital bed.

Quinn shakes her head and stays put. “Rachel.”

“Come. Here.” Rachel’s expression is firm and resolved and it only makes Quinn want to cry some more.

“You’ve got cracked ribs and - ” Quinn starts.

“Quinn, I swear to God. Get in this bed. You look absolutely terrible.”

Quinn arches an eyebrow as she stands up, shifting to lay on the bed next to Rachel but taking care to avoid all the various wires and other important looking things spread around.

Rachel wraps a hand around Quinn’s neck and pulls her down, kissing her on the forehead before tugging her face into Rachel’s neck and holding her there.

Eyes wide, Quinn breathes in against Rachel’s skin and lets the terror of the last few hours wash out of her. The tears come again and she can’t stop them. But this time, a small hand strokes down her back and the soft sound of humming resounds in her ears.

Rachel’s lips are against her hair and she’s singing under her breath, an absent habit that puts a lump in Quinn’s throat and makes her stomach turn over. It’s Rachel’s morning song, the one she sings in the shower or when she’s making breakfast and the same song Quinn couldn’t stop hearing when all she saw was the life bleeding out of her wife and her whole world crashing around her.

The notes are disjointed and soft but they brand themselves over Quinn’s heart and lull her into a hazy warmth that shoots the cold desolation of earlier straight out of her.

She presses further into Rachel’s neck and smiles soft and easy.

\--  
 _  
The summer before Quinn's first year in law school and Santana's fourth year as a cop, Rick's closed for a week. Something about renovating the bar, installing new taps and Joe going on a much-needed vacation but whatever the reason, Quinn and Santana were left without their usual spot. There were other bars in the city, sure, but Rick's was_ theirs _and going somewhere else just seemed wrong._

_But alas, they had to go somewhere, so they ended up at some small joint about four blocks away from where Rick's was. It wasn’t too bad - it was dark and smoky just like Rick's, but a little classier. The tables were cleaner, the floors less littered and in one corner there was a small stage, a black piano and single microphone stand._

_The first night they were there, it was just a piano player on stage, a melancholy tune emanating from his fingertips. It took a little to get used to, as there wasn’t often music at Rick's aside from the clinking of glasses and the murmuring of low voices, but after a while the music began to sort of wash over them softly and became a comfortable background noise as Quinn stared across the table at Santana. It annoyed Santana, of course, who would much rather drink in silence, but with little to no other options her friend remained silent about it._

_The second night they were there, though, it was a Tuesday and while they were sitting there that evening, some time after her third beer but before Santana started ordering tequila, a short brunette girl got up in front of the mic. Santana observed her with a skeptical eyebrow before turning to Quinn and shaking her head._

_"Great, now we get to spend the night listening to some piss-poor amateur karaoke version of Billy Joel," she commented to Quinn. "How hard is it to drink in peace these days?"_

_Quinn looked over where the girl was standing in a short black dress and heels and watched as she leaned over the piano and talked in a low whisper to the man seated at the bench. Her long brown hair flowed forward and Quinn couldn’t stop staring for a minute._

_"She might be good," she replied, not looking at Santana._

_Her friend scoffed, popped a pretzel in her mouth from the bowl on the table. "Yeah, sure Q."_

_She stopped watching the singer when the brunette headed to the bar and turned her attention back to Santana. "So how's Britt?"_

_Santana leaned back and crossed her arms. "Driving me crazy," she said._

_Quinn laughed. "Yeah?"_

_"Her and Mike have legit taken over my entire living room trying to do some new fucking interpretive dance. Whatever that means," Santana replied, uncrossing her arms to gesture wildly._

_"Why are they in your living room and not the studio?"_

_"That's what I said!" Santana exclaimed, dropping her hand on the edge of the table. "Something about their boss not letting them have studio time or whatever."_

_"That sucks," Quinn added._

_Santana leaned back forward and propped her elbows on the table, grasping her beer with one hand. "I'm seriously this close," she held up her index and thumb close together. "To just buying that damn studio for her so they can get the hell out of my apartment."_

_Quinn nodded slowly and picked up her own beer, bringing it to her lips as the soft sound of the piano started to drift towards them. She glanced back towards the stage to see the brunette from earlier setting a drink down on a low stool and stepping up to the microphone, adjusting the stand before smiling softly at the man behind her._

_"Great," Santana said when she followed Quinn's gaze. "Here we go."_

_The singer smiled across the room, but there weren’t that many people there anyway. Just a few businessmen in rumpled suits at the bar and a few couples scattered over the tables. Not many were really paying attention to the stage, most of them had their heads buried into the glass on the table in front of them._

_Quinn smiled and laughed at her friend's cynicism, but she felt her breath stop in her throat when the first few notes out of the singer's mouth reached her ears. It seemed to shoot across the entire bar like wildfire and even the drunk at the end of the bar, the one Quinn suspected had a permanent stool at this establishment, picked his head up and stared at the girl on stage in awe._

_It was really like nothing she'd ever heard before. Quinn wouldn't call herself an aficionado of music or anything, but she was raised to have an appreciation in the finer things in life and she could recognize something special pretty easily. She remembered the piano lessons as a little girl and the hours of music theory she was forced to take in high school and through all the hours of listening to thousands of people sing, of entertaining her parents' friends at cocktail parties with conversation about classical composers and hearing the soft lull of vocal entertainment at many charity functions, Quinn gained an ear for music._

_And this girl? Well, Quinn had only heard her sing for a minute now but she was pretty sure she could listen to her voice for the rest of forever. The singer locked eyes with Quinn across the bar and it was like a jolt shooting straight through her as they stared at each other. The other girl smiled softly as she sang, letting her gaze linger on Quinn's for a heavy moment before turning away and observing the rest of the crowd, motion seeming to restart around Quinn without the dark brown eyes on her._

_"She's good," Quinn let out on a breath, low and quiet, and for a second she thought Santana maybe didn't hear her. The low sound of the singing flowed over her, some jazzy tune appropriate for the dark smoky atmosphere of the bar and she almost closed her eyes at the feeling._

_But then her friend scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Whatever," Santana replied. "There are a hundred of her in this city, all trying to make it big. Maybe two of them will succeed, the other 98 end up on my watch, coked out of their mind and sitting on a bench down at the station."_

_Quinn laughed and looked at her friend. "You're such a joy to be around, Santana."_

_Santana smiled, wide and cheeky, tipping her beer bottle towards Quinn. "I know."_

_Quinn shook her head and leaned back in her chair. She looked back at the girl on stage and had a hard time turning her eyes away._

_About an hour or two later (Quinn wasn't really keeping track, just enjoying it) the music ended and by that time Santana had taken to sexting Brittany like they were fifteen year olds again, which meant Quinn was bored. Really bored. She shook the ice in her glass around on the table and blew out a heavy breath, trying to ignore the drunken chuckle Santana let out as her phone beeped again._

_"Why don't you just go home," Quinn said, her eyes following the singer from before as she walked out from the back room and made her way to the bar._

_"We're drinking," Santana answered, her head still bowed over her phone._

_Quinn turned to look at her. "I'm not drinking," she said, holding her empty glass up under Santana's face and jiggling it until the ice made a loud clinking noise._

_Santana jerked away and glared at Quinn. "Then go get a fucking drink. What do you want from me?"_

_"I'd like to not be involved in your sick foreplay with Brittany," Quinn said as she sat her glass down on the table._

_"You're not involved," Santana retorted, pocketing her phone and picking up her beer. "And it's not foreplay."_

_Quinn rolled her eyes and slid her glass away from her. Leaning back in her seat, her eyes found the brunette singer again, sitting at a stool at the bar, bare legs crossed over each other. When Santana's phone beeped again, Quinn sighed and stood up._

_"I’m going to get a drink, you want one?"_

_Santana waved her off. "Yeah, sure, whatever."_

_Because Quinn was bored and because she always felt it was important to show appreciation for things, she walked up to the bar and leaned her forearms against it, right next to the girl who's voice had distracted her all night long. She might as well get something out of this night._

_It wasn't Quinn's best opening line, but it was late and she had a significant amount of liquor in her system and really she just taking a shot in the dark for lack of anything better to do. So she ordered herself a Tom Collins (with a lime not a lemon) and turned her head to look at the girl on her right. "Hey."_

_Brown hair shifted as the girl turned and Quinn's gaze flickered down to smooth, tan legs that were a great source of distraction when the girl had been singing earlier. What? Quinn liked legs and this girl had clearly been given a top of the line pair._

_"Hello," she replied, smiling slightly at Quinn and twirling a straw around in her drink. The glass was only about a quarter full so Quinn put on the most charming smile she could muster and pointed at it, raising an eyebrow._

_"Buy you a drink?" Okay, that was about as unoriginal as you can get really but hey, classics are classics for a reason, right?_

_The other girl laughed and if Quinn liked the way she sounded when she sang, she loved the way she sounded when she laughed. "Very original," she replied and Quinn took a moment to be grateful that her obvious come on didn't devolve into an awkward_ I'm not gay, but thanks _conversation._

_She shrugged and turned to lean her hip on the bar, extending her hand. "Quinn Fabray," she stated._

_The other girl smiled and shifted further to face Quinn, reaching out to clasp her hand and pump it up and down. "Rachel Berry," she replied._

_"Nice to meet you, Rachel," Quinn said, enjoying the way Rachel's palm felt warm and smooth against her own. "You were really good up there."_

_Rachel kept their hands locked together and her eyes moved down Quinn's body before moving up again. "I'm really good a lot of places."_

_Surprised laughter shot out of her and Rachel joined in before Quinn let go of Rachel's hand and smiled warmly at the other girl. "Let me buy you a drink and you can tell me about it."_

_"I suppose I can agree to those terms," Rachel replied, leaning closer to Quinn._

_Quinn stepped forward and bit her lip. “Yeah?”_

_“Yeah,” Rachel said, licking her lips and eying Quinn’s mouth. Warmth swirled around in her stomach and she took in the scent of Rachel’s perfume and the way the dim lights of the bar made her hair shine._

_Quinn ran a hand through her hair and chuckled. “Well okay then,” she replied, her voice sounding deep and scratchy. “What are you drinking?”_

_And that was that._

_It would be two weeks and three days until Quinn would find out exactly just how good Rachel really was, but that night over a Tom Collins and a vodka and diet tonic, Quinn found out a lot of things about Rachel Berry. She found out she had great legs, an incredible voice, two gay dads that lived in Ohio, a very promising musical theater career and a surprising affinity for blackberry brandy._

_Quinn had never had blackberry brandy before, but later that night, between the pay phone bank and the door to the men's restroom she found out just how good it tasted off of Rachel Berry's tongue._  
  
\--

By the time Quinn has calmed down and her breathing has evened out against Rachel’s neck, she' forgotten the world around them, choosing instead to focus on her bright spot, her wife and breathing her in. The silence of the room is comforting even with the light bustling noises outside and the click of machinery on either side of them.

All Quinn feels is peace and love, until Rachel shifts slightly, her hand clenching tighter to the small of Quinn’s back, and turns her head to thunk against Quinn’s lightly. Her voice is timid and unsure and so unlike Rachel that Quinn feels a long-running and practically constant feeling of protectiveness flit through her as her body goes cold and her hands itch to find Roger Pike and tear him apart with her bare hands.

“What about the baby?”


	6. Part Six

"What about the baby?" Rachel repeats when Quinn doesn't say anything.

Quinn swallows hard and her face scrunches up against Rachel's neck but she can't get any words to come out. Rachel must sense it but her wife stays silent, her lips coming to press against Quinn's head. Quinn can almost feel the answering expression of pain on Rachel's face.  
   
Finally, Quinn takes a deep, shaky breath and feels like she has control over her words. "They don't know yet," she whispers into the skin in front of her. "But now that you're awake they can run some tests.  
   
"Okay," Rachel croaks. "Okay. I'm sure it's okay."  
   
Quinn shakes her head. "You don't know that."  
   
"I'd know," Rachel insists. "I'd know, okay?"  
   
"Rach," Quinn murmurs, picking her head up to look into the red-rimmed eyes of her wife. "Rach, baby - "  
   
"You have to believe in it, Quinn," she says, her hand gripping around Quinn's bicep. "Please, I need you to believe in it."  
   
It's really the hardest thing Rachel could have possibly asked her because the Quinn hardly isn’t sure about this being okay, isn’t sure about it being okay, isn’t sure about much of anything being okay right now. But Rachel is looking at her longingly and the tears are starting to fall and Quinn doesn't think she can deny Rachel this right now. "Okay."  
   
It doesn't totally convince her wife and Rachel's brow starts to furrow, so Quinn does the only thing she can think of to turn Rachel's thoughts off of the dark path they're taking. "Toolio," she blurts out.  
   
It gets Quinn the desired effect as Rachel tries to figure out what Quinn is saying and the tears abruptly stop, replaced by confusion. "What?"  
   
"Toolio," Quinn repeats. "The name."  
   
Then it finally dawns on Rachel what she's talking about and all the dark energy bursts out of the room with Rachel's deep laughter. "Ow, ow," she chuckles. "Don't make me laugh."  
   
"Sorry," Quinn offers insincerely.  
   
"We're not naming our baby Toolio," Rachel says, smiling.  
   
"Straw," Quinn counters.  
   
Rachel tilts her head on the pillow and narrows her eyes at Quinn. "You want to name it Straw?"  
   
"Straw Berry-Fabray," Quinn says.  
   
Rachel brings a hand up to cover her face as she holds back laughter and Quinn grins at the expression, feeling a warmth settle in her chest that wasn't there moments before.  
   
"We should name it after Santana," Rachel replies as she moves her hand and looks back at Quinn. "Just to freak her out."  
   
"See," Quinn jokes, stroking hair off of Rachel's forehead and smiling. "This is why I love you."  
   
Smiling, Rachel shifts closer but nearly immediately after moving an expression of pain shoots across her face and Quinn feels it cut right through her.  
   
\--  
  _  
In the lowest level of their house there was a small, soundproofed room that Rachel used as a recording studio slash office. In fact, the entire lower level was pretty much Rachel's space. Quinn didn't spend a ton of time down there unless she was actually with Rachel but her wife wasn't home right now and she couldn't find her favorite sweatshirt. It was kind of childish, but that sweatshirt was like a good luck charm and Rachel had taken to stealing it (like she did most of Quinn's clothes) at the most inopportune times. There was no way she was going to go play pool with Santana without her lucky sweatshirt.  
   
So, after basically searching the entire household including the spare bedrooms and extra kitchen and the many storage closets, she went downstairs in hopes that Rachel had left it in one of her rooms down there.  
   
Lo and behold, when Quinn walked into the small studio-cum-office the grey sweatshirt was hanging off a chair near one of Rachel's desks. "Thank God," Quinn breathed as she picked it up and slid it over her head. The fabric was warm and smelled like Rachel and just like that, Quinn stopped being annoyed that she had just spent an hour looking for the damn thing.  
   
She was halfway out of the room when she noticed it. For whatever reason, the stack of papers in the corner caught her eye and curiosity got the better of her when she realized it wasn't sheet music like the rest of the documents in the room. When she actually picked the papers up and flipped through the contents, her stomach flipped over with realization.  
   
There was really only one reason for Rachel Berry-Fabray to be reading about fertility treatments and adoption agencies and surrogacy.  
   
\--  
   
Rachel strode into the kitchen in a flurry of movement, slamming a massive pile of sheet music on the table, walking over to Quinn and kissing her hello before waltzing to the refrigerator to pull out a bottle of tomato juice and set it on the counter.  
   
"Hi," Quinn greeted, eyeing the sheet music on the table and shuffling the papers in her hand around. She leaned her butt up against the counter opposite Rachel and watched her wife's hair swish around as she poured a glass of juice and put the bottle back in their fridge.  
   
"Hey," Rachel replied brightly. "You will not believe what happened to me today. Kurt showed up - "  
   
Quinn stopped her before Rachel went off on a thirty minute tirade about her day and Quinn forgot all about the papers in her hand. Throwing the stack of papers on the table next to the sheet music, Quinn pointed to them and waited for Rachel to face her. "What are these?"  
   
Confusion spread across her face, Rachel tilted her head to inspect the brochures and forms before a gasp of realization escaped her. "Quinn," she started, eyes wide as she looked back at Quinn.  
   
"Just tell me," Quinn said.  
   
"I wasn't," Rachel said. "I mean, I just - "_

 _The words were choppy and hesitant and Quinn felt a year-old shroud of despair fall over them again and she just needed to not relive that period in their marriage ever again. She had spent the last few weeks watching Santana fall apart and thinking about how Brittany walked away and feeling entirely helpless. She was done feeling like that and when she looked into Rachel's brown eyes and felt the ring twist on her finger she knew what she wanted.  
   
"I want a baby," Quinn interrupted. "I think we should have a baby."  
   
Rendering Rachel speechless became one of her crowning achievements in life.  
   
“I’m hoping you not having anything to say to that is a good thing,” Quinn joked, pushing off from the counter she was leaning against and smiling softly at her wife.  
   
“Have I gone into shock?” Rachel mumbled, blinking around the kitchen. “Or I’m dreaming. Where’s the chocolate fountain?”  
   
“You’re not dreaming,” Quinn laughed, crossing her arms over her chest and choosing to ignore that interesting tidbit about her wife’s dreams.  
   
Rachel nodded slowly and locked eyes with Quinn. “You’re right. If this were a dream you’d be naked.”  
   
Rolling her eyes, Quinn chuckled a little and shook her head. “What do you say?”  
   
Rachel blinked. “About what?”  
   
“The baby thing,” Quinn repeated, raising her eyebrows.  
   
“You want a baby,” Rachel said. “Two years of _ No, Rachel, absolutely not _and now all of a sudden you want a baby? What on earth could’ve happened since our terrible, dark, deep period of angst about this very subject that could convince you that you wanted a baby after you fought tooth and nail to never have one? Because I remember, very distinctly, being told that it would not happen.”  
   
“I changed my mind,” Quinn answered simply.  
   
“You just changed your mind,” Rachel repeated, throwing her hands up as she looked at Quinn incredulously. “This is a very serious life choice, Quinn Fabray, and while I can’t say that your sudden desire to procreate with me isn’t pleasing, it’s certainly alarming and I really think you should put some thought into this because if you change your mind _ again _so flippantly so help me God - ”  
   
Quinn cut her off with a finger to her lips and wrapped an arm around Rachel’s waist.  
   
“I have thought about it,” Quinn whispered.   _

 _“Well all the evidence points to the idea that you have - ” Rachel mumbled around Quinn’s finger.  
   
“Rachel,” Quinn interrupted. “Think maybe I could have the floor for five seconds?”  
   
Pulling Quinn’s finger away from her lips Rachel smiled sheepishly. “Sorry.”  
   
“As I was saying,” Quinn continued. “I _ have _thought about it. Brittany leaving made me think about a lot of things.”  
   
“Yes, I know,” Rachel said before Quinn clapped her hand over her mouth again.  
   
“Seriously, I will gag you,” Quinn warned.  
   
A perfectly shaped eyebrow lifted over Rachel’s left eye but she kept her mouth shut.  
   
“Brittany left and Santana’s completely wrecked and here I am in this life, with you and I…I,” she stammered. “I just don’t want to waste it. I don’t want to look back twenty years from now and regret all my stupid fears and paranoia and I want them to stop running my life. I feel like my whole world is falling apart and I just...”  
   
She swallowed and brought her hand away from Rachel’s mouth to replace it with her own lips for a hot moment. “I want to do this,” she whispered when they broke apart. “I think we can do this. I think we’d be really good.”  
   
Rachel nodded and a large grin spread slowly across her face. “Yeah,” she agreed, bringing up both her hands to grip Quinn’s cheeks. “We can. We will be.”  
 _  
\--  
   
"Rach," Quinn says, sliding off the bed, standing up, and leaning over her wife. She strokes the hair off of Rachel's face and keeps her hands on warm cheeks as Rachel breathes through pain. "I'll go get the doctor.  
   
"No," Rachel exclaims, grabbing Quinn's hands and pulling them away. "I'm okay."  
   
"Baby, they can give you something for the pain."  
   
Relaxing her face and arching an eyebrow, Rachel stares at Quinn skeptically. "I'm preg - ” she gets halfway though the word before her face scrunches up in pain again - this time for an entirely different reason.  
   
"Rachel," she whispers, leaning close and putting a hand back on her wife's cheek to calm her back down. "Let me get the doctor, okay?"  
   
Rachel doesn't say anything and Quinn is really starting to hate silence, especially Rachel’s silence, but her wife nods and manages a soft smile. "Okay."  
   
"I love you," Quinn mutters, her lips pressing against Rachel's forehead in a long kiss.  
   
"You too," Rachel replies as Quinn breaks away.  
   
\--  
  _  
"What's the occasion?" Quinn asked, head cocked to the side as she observed their nicest china spread out over the table.  
   
"Wasn't aware I needed one," Rachel replied, sitting down at the table and beaming at Quinn.  
   
Quinn arched an eyebrow as she plopped down next to the other place setting. "Yes you are."  
   
"Quinn." The name dropped out of Rachel's mouth like an exasperated sigh.  
   
"The last time you had this china out I dropped a few grand on that trophy case in the lower level."  
   
"It's an award case," Rachel clarified. "Trophy sounds so distasteful, I explained that to you when you helped me move said awards into it."  
   
"Right," Quinn replied, dropping her napkin on her lap and picking up a fork. "That makes total sense."  
   
"Eat your dinner," Rachel ordered, her eyes narrowed.  
   
"You made my favorite," Quinn said suspiciously, her fork hovering over her plate as she observed the meal. "What's going on?"  
   
The annoyed look that crossed her wife's face only confirmed her suspicions. Rachel only got really annoyed with Quinn when she wasn't playing into some harebrained scheme Rachel had cooked up. Something was going on. "Why are you being so difficult?"  
   
"Because you're trying to butter me up for something, what happened?" The grandfather clock chimed loudly from the living room and Quinn looked around the kitchen suspiciously. "Are your fathers here again, did you get arrested today?"  
   
"I'm pregnant!" Rachel blurted out all of a sudden and Quinn dropped her fork to the plate with a crash, her eyes widening. "Dang it, dang it, dang it," Rachel sputtered as she smacked the table with her hand. "Dang it."  
   
"Holy shit," Quinn breathed her eyes darting around but not seeing anything. "Holy shit."  
   
"No, no, no," Rachel said, waving her hand at Quinn. "Pretend you didn't hear that, I take it back, you didn't hear that, kidding!"  
   
Quinn's brows came together and she finally focused on her wife who was very clearly freaking out. "Rach," she started.  
   
"No, no," Rachel replied, still waving her hand around as she shook her head. "It wasn't supposed to come out like that, I had a whole plan, dang it, pretend you didn't hear that, okay?"  
   
"Rachel," Quinn intoned, trying to break through the freakout.  
   
"Just rewind, start over," she continued.  
   
"Rachel, shut up!" Quinn shouted, finally quieting the other girl. "You're ruining it."  
   
Jaw snapping shut, Rachel looked somewhere between angry and tears. "I know I ruined it," she started again.  
   
Quinn leaned abruptly over the table and put a finger against Rachel's mouth. "Shut up," she repeated, before moving back to sit down.  
   
Still gaping and feeling entirely gobsmacked, Quinn just sort of stared at Rachel. "Wow," she whispered.  
   
"Quinn," Rachel whined.  
   
In a flash, Quinn was up from her chair and leaning over her wife, gripping her head with both hands and pulling Rachel to her feet with a searing kiss. The surprised gasp Rachel let out got swallowed by Quinn's lips on hers. Small fists tangled in Quinn's shirt and pulled them closer as she felt Rachel smile against her mouth.  
   
"You're pregnant?" Quinn asked in a whisper as they broke apart.  
   
Rachel nodded. "So says the doctor and the thirteen pregnancy tests I took earlier."  
   
"No way," she uttered, her hands leaving Rachel's face to wrap around her waist and haul her up against Quinn's body.  
   
Tan arms tangled around Quinn's neck and Rachel beamed at her. "Yes way."  
   
Twirling them in circles in their kitchen, Quinn let out a loud laugh and felt the answering sound in her ear as Rachel held onto her.  
_  
\--  
   
Out in the hallway, the first person she sees is Puck, sprawled out on a chair, head tipped against the wall and snoring. Loudly. She walks over to him, pinches her thumb and index finger on his nose to stop the noise until he sputters awake, swatting at her hand and shooting upward.  
   
"The fuck, Fabray?" He's glaring at her and wiping sleep off his face but she can't take the smile off her face.  
   
"Rachel's awake," she informs him. "She's awake."  
   
He blinks at her, his jaw dropping open a little before his eyes dart to the doorway to Rachel's room and he shoots to his feet. "Yeah?"  
   
"Yeah," Quinn answers, nodding.  
   
A grin breaks over his face and Quinn can see how he struggles to wipe it away before he pumps a fist in the air by his side. "Sick."  
   
"Totally," she chuckles.  
   
Eyes shifting between the door and Quinn's face, Puck laughs and claps a hand over her shoulder, nodding at her softly. "I should call Lopez."  
   
"No," Quinn shakes her head quickly. "It's late. Let her sleep while the doctor comes and takes a look at Rach. We can call her in the morning."  
   
"Quinn," he starts, smile dropping from his face.  
   
"Call her in the morning," Quinn repeats. She thinks of the way she felt when she saw Brittany and Santana together and she thinks about what they're probably doing right now in their apartment. "Trust me."  
   
\--  
  _  
After Rachel told Quinn she was pregnant, Quinn took the next four hours showing her wife just how happy that news made her. In about sixteen different ways. When her muscles started to lose all their strength and she became fairly certain that another orgasm would probably kill one or the both of them, Quinn decided her point had probably gotten across.  
   
Rain beat steadily against their bedroom window and Quinn watched the drops roll down the glass as she tried to catch her breath and ran her fingers down the warm, damp skin of Rachel’s back. Her mind felt somewhere between the hazy post-sex swirl right before she nodded off and a whirlwind of thought and emotion because she was still trying to process this new development in her life.  
   
“A franc for your thoughts,” Rachel said softly, the lips near Quinn’s collarbone stretching in what Quinn knew was a smile.  
   
“It’s raining,” Quinn answered, tracing Rachel’s spine.  
   
The hot breath of Rachel’s laughter beat against her neck and Quinn grinned in response, pulling her wife closer into her. “This is kind of amazing,” she whispered against Rachel’s hair.  
   
Rachel’s head pulled up until they were eye level. “Yeah?”  
   
“Yeah,” Quinn said, her brow furrowing a little bit.  
   
“So you’re happy?” Rachel asked, her hand settling on Quinn’s hip.  
   
“You couldn’t tell?” Quinn chuckled and stroked the hair away from Rachel’s face, tucking it around her ear. “I thought I made that pretty obvious.”  
   
“Mmmm,” Rachel hummed, running her hand up from Quinn’s hip. “I’m glad you’re happy.”  
   
Her head tilted a little to the side as she observed her wife’s expression. After years of being with Rachel she’d gotten pretty good at reading her and right now there was something in Rachel’s face that was...off. “That’s a weird thing to say.”  
   
Rachel shrugged and ran her fingertips along Quinn’s ribs. “Why? It’s true.”  
   
“Why wouldn’t I be happy?” The skin at Rachel’s back was still warm as she ran her hand up it and felt the body on top of hers shift as her wife took a deep breath and shrugged again.  
   
“You just haven’t been really happy in a long time,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, and breathy against Quinn’s skin.  
   
“Rachel,” Quinn replied, her chest tightening at her wife’s tight expression. “Baby...”  
   
“No,” she interrupted, small fingers tracing up Quinn’s sides. “I just mean the last few years have been pretty hard, the last few months especially and it’s just nice to see you happy.”  
   
“Yeah,” Quinn said, swallowing. She tried not to focus on the things Rachel was referring to - the problems at work, with her family and most recently, Brittany’s sudden departure and Santana’s spiral into despondent alcoholism. Instead she focused on how soft Rachel’s skin was, the way her hair was a tangled mess, the light flush in her cheeks and the fingers drawing shapes over her ribs. “The last few years have been hard but never doubt how happy I am, how happy you make me. I’m sorry I don’t tell you often enough.”  
   
Her hips pushed upward as she powered them both over so she was hovering over her wife, her body propped up on her elbow near Rachel’s face and locking her eyes onto her wife’s with intent and sincerity. “You make me so, so happy,” she repeated, her free hand palming the skin between Rachel’s breasts before sliding down to settle low on her stomach. “You and this new little person.”  
   
“Was that a crack about my height?”  
   
The seriousness of the moment rushed out of the room and Quinn collapsed in laughter on top of her wife, her forehead hitting Rachel’s shoulder as a hand gripped into her hair and started to pull the tangles out.  
   
“I’m really, really happy,” Quinn said, her lips brushing against bare skin.  
   
“Me too,” Rachel said, turning to press a kiss to Quinn’s temple.  
   
Silence fell around them after that and Quinn could feel her eyes start to droop closed, the sound of rain and the feeling of Rachel’s fingers in her hair lulling her into sleep. Seconds from nodding off, Rachel’s voice cuts back in. “I hope the kid is like me and not an emotional cripple,” she muttered.  
   
Quinn shot her head up to stare at her wife incredulously. “What?”  
   
A wide, joking grin was plastered on Rachel’s face and the body under Quinn began to shake with laughter as Rachel brought a hand up to cover her smile. “I’m kidding,” she said between laughs.  
   
“You’re hilarious,” Quinn deadpanned. “I hope it inherits my height.”  
   
An indignant gasp cut Rachel’s laughter off as she pushed Quinn off of her in mock rage and started to beat her with one of the pillows from their bed. “I can’t believe you just said that.”  
   
Putting her arms up to shield her face, Quinn just kept laughing.  
 _  
\--  
   
Pacing back and forth in the hospital hallway, Quinn worries her thumb between her teeth as she watches the tiles go by under her feet. The doctor's in with Rachel now and Quinn had excused herself outside, her nervous pacing had agitated Rachel pretty quickly. Puck is still in the same chair he had been sleeping in, his leg bouncing up and down rapidly as he watches a clock hung on the wall not too far from the room.  
   
"You think it's okay?" The question is low and almost inaudible but Quinn hears it and knows exactly what he's referring to by it.  
   
"Yes," she says firmly, stopping for a second in front of him. "Yes."  
   
"Good," he swallows  
   
Taking a deep breath, she looks resolutely at the doorway before making her decision. "I'm going back in there."  
   
Puck chuckles. "Good luck."  
   
Rachel is sitting up in bed when she gets inside, talking to the doctor at her bedside as he flips some sheets over in her chart. "Hey," she greets softly.  
   
"Hi," Rachel replies, the happy look on her face making Quinn feel better.  
   
"Oh, Ms. Fabray," the doctor says, turning to look at her. "I was just about to tell your wife - "  
   
She blurts the question out before she can stop herself. "Is it okay?"  
   
Thankfully, the doctor smiles softly and looks at her indulgently. "Your son is fine," he says and shock pours straight on Quinn's head like a bucket of ice, flowing through all her limbs. Rachel jerks upward in bed too.  
   
"I'm sorry, what?" Quinn manages to get out.  
   
The doctor looks at her confused before giving a look to Rachel and then back down to his chart. "You did know you were pregnant, right?"  
   
"We're having a boy," Rachel mumbles, eyes wide and staring blankly on the blanket covering her legs.  
   
"Son?" Quinn asks at the same time.  
   
"You didn't know," the doctor says with sudden realization. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I thought you knew."  
   
"No, no, no," Quinn interrupts, shaking her hand at him and trying to get the bewildered expression off her face. She can't help the way she stares at Rachel with awe and wonder. "It's fine, it's fine."  
   
The doctor throws the chart into a slot on the wall and puts his hand on her shoulder. "Congratulations," he mutters apologetically before walking out.  
   
Then it's just her and Rachel in the hospital room, the whir of the machines around Rachel's bed the only sound. It takes a few seconds of just standing there before Rachel lifts her head, a massive smile crawling across her face as she looks at Quinn. "We're having a boy," she repeats.  
   
Quinn's lips turn up into her own smile and the cold shock of earlier warms to anticipation and excitement and a happiness that she can't stamp down. "Yeah," she breathes before striding to the bed and dropping a hot kiss on Rachel's laughing mouth.  
   
\--  
   
Santana shows up the next morning, after Quinn tells Puck it's okay to call her.  
   
Quinn's standing in the hallway with Rachel's doctor and nurse, running over some weird organic painkillers they're putting Rachel on to deal with the pain in her ribs. Rachel had actually been the one that suggested the medication - claiming that she had done the research on pain remedies when she found out she was pregnant (sometimes Quinn feels like she'll never understand this crazy girl she married). When Rachel had started complaining about the gash on her forehead and how they better find the best plastic surgeon in the entire country to make sure it doesn't scar, Quinn knew her wife was just fine and pulled the doctor into the hallway.  
   
The doctor is halfway through his explanation on safe medication during pregnancies and how it will probably make Rachel loopy for a little bit when Santana skids to a halt in front of her, dark hair out of place and a harried expression all over her tan face. Her friend gets through a stumbling, hurried demand for information when Quinn realizes why Santana looks so worried. It's because she is.  
   
"Oh my God," she says, realization flushing through her. She can't help it. Laughter bursts out of her in long, unending tumbles. "You're worried about Rachel."  
   
It's one of the brighter moments of the last few hours and Quinn can't stop the huge wave of affection for Santana Lopez rushes through her. Despite Santana's denial that she's only worried about Rachel in a professional capacity, Quinn sees right through it and envelopes her friend into a hug.  
   
"I love you," she whispers into Santana's ear.  
   
Her friend rolls her eyes when they break apart but Quinn knows it means I love you too.  
   
Santana strides into the hospital room to see Rachel, and Quinn turns back to the doctor to hear the rest of the explanation before following her friend into her wife's room, Puck right beside her.  
   
\--  
  _  
The first time Rachel met Quinn's parents was almost entirely a disaster. Quinn shouldn't have really expected much else considering who her parents were and who Rachel was, but she couldn't stop the little thread of childish hope that her parents and the love of her life could get along. But despite all that wishing, the frosty atmosphere at dinner devolved quickly into a heated argument between her father and her girlfriend.  
   
"Don't talk to her like that," Rachel commanded, half out of her chair and glaring daggers at a completely unruffled Russell Fabray.  
   
"I'm her father," he replied icily. "I can talk to her any which way I please."  
   
"Rachel," Quinn said softly, putting a restraining arm on Rachel's wrist. "Calm down."  
   
"I'm not going to calm down, Quinn," Rachel said furiously. "Did you not hear what he just said to you?"  
   
She had heard it just fine, of course. It was the same things her father had been saying to her for a long time now. Getting called a failure and a disappointment was almost losing the effect it had had when she was younger - she'd heard it so often it was nearly white noise.  
   
"Just let it go," she ordered, watching her mother sip her wine glass out of the corner of her eye.  
   
“Quinn, that’s ridiculous,” Rachel started, but Quinn’s father interrupted her.  
   
“Listen here, young lady,” he boomed from his side of the table, setting his glass of bourbon on the table. “Who are you to lecture me on my own daughter? You, just some phase she’s going through. I’m the one that will be here at the end of it all. You’re just a mistake in a long line of mistakes that I’ll end up having to clean up after.”  
   
Her father wasn’t finished, Quinn could tell, but as much as she didn’t mind the insults being flung in her direction, Rachel didn’t need to be subjected to the same. “Stop now,” she warned, narrowing her eyes in his direction. “Say what you want about me, but leave Rachel out of it.”  
   
“Quinn,” he said, his voice darkening. “You’re running out of second chances with me. Stop ruining your life.”  
   
For some reason, as her father continued to expound upon how terrible Quinn was, messing up the life plan he had laid out for her when she was only five, she couldn’t help but stare at her mother. Judy Fabray. Who sat next to her father with her glass of wine, looking about as a statute would.  
   
She got so wrapped up in watching her mother that she didn’t even notice Rachel bristle again as her girlfriend opened her mouth to counter her father’s insults.  
   
“I will have you know that Quinn - ”  
   
“Rachel,” she interrupted, grabbing her girlfriend’s hand and squeezing. “Please.” She couldn’t deny that seeing Rachel come so quickly to the defense of her character was probably one of the best feelings in the world, but the dinner was already uncomfortable and she’d just like to finish the meal in front of her, get out of here and take advantage of the dress Rachel was wearing and Rachel in general.  
   
Her girlfriend deflated, probably from the pitiful pleading look Quinn sent her way, but it didn’t really matter. The rest of the night continued to be awkward and her father merely glared at her over the rim of his tumbler as she shoved food in her mouth as rapidly as possible while her mother continued to sip at her wine glass occasionally.  
   
Rachel, true to form, made conversation the entire time. Mostly she just talked to herself or Quinn, though she directed questions towards both of Quinn’s parents. Despite feeling the harsh sting of parental rejection, Quinn had to stop herself from laughing a few times when Rachel would answer her own questions or argue with herself aloud.  
   
Later, as they were walking home, Rachel swung their arms back and forth as she eyed the dresses in the storefronts they passed. "We're never going to treat our kids like that," she said absently.  
   
"Like what?" Quinn said automatically, not really paying attention. Now that they were away from her parents, Quinn didn't really want to think about that anymore. All she wanted to pay attention to was the way the straps of Rachel's dress looked about ready to fall off her shoulder and how she was going to show her gratitude to her girlfriend for enduring the dinner when they got back to her apartment.  
   
"Your parents," she said, tugging down on Quinn's arm. "I know they're your parents and respect is very important within that relationship but you really shouldn't let them talk to you like that. I would never tell our children they were a disappointment because they didn't chose to follow in my admittedly large footsteps and pursue a career in show business. I mean, I would encourage them, of course, because any child of ours would obviously inherit a wealth of talent, but - "  
   
She hummed affirmatively but all of a sudden her mind kind of caught up to what exactly Rachel was talking about. "Back up," she blurted out.  
   
"Which part?" Rachel asked, looking up at Quinn innocently.  
   
"We're having kids?" Quinn's brows came together and her mind opened up to an array of possibilities she had never thought of before.  
   
"Well not right now,” Rachel joked, swinging their arms back and forth.  
   
Quinn didn’t laugh, just stared straight ahead, wide-eyed. “Wow,” she breathed.  
   
“What?”  
   
“I just never really thought about it,” Quinn replied, blinking against this new future that just opened up. “Wow.”  
   
“You never thought about it?” Rachel stopped and pulled Quinn to a halt beside her. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”  
   
“What?” She tried to focus on what her girlfriend was saying but all she could think about was miniature versions of Rachel running around; visions of taking them to school, of bringing them to Rachel’s shows and teaching them to read and write and sing all torpedoed into her brain, nearly pushing her over.  
   
“Do you not want children? Is that why you haven’t thought about it? Do you not want them with me? Are you breaking up with me?” The questions poured out of Rachel, becoming more frenzied as she kept talking and finally broke through Quinn’s reverie.  
   
“Whoa,” Quinn interjected, putting up a hand to stop her girlfriend. “Why are you freaking out right now?”  
   
“Because you’re freaking out!” Rachel exclaimed, eyes wide.  
   
“I am _ not _freaking out._ You’re _freaking out,” Quinn clarified patiently. “I just said I hadn’t thought about it. It’s not something I worry about, I guess.” She gestured between them trying to get across her message.  
   
“So it’s something to worry about it,” Rachel intoned, nodding slowly. “So you don’t want children.”  
   
“Rachel,” Quinn said exasperated. She rolled her eyes and tugged her girlfriend closer. “I said had just never thought about it. I didn’t say I didn’t want a couple mini-yous running around.”  
   
Rachel eyed her suspiciously, but before she could open her mouth to spew more nonsense, Quinn leaned over and pressed their lips together in a soft kiss.  
   
“I love you,” Quinn whispered. “Stop freaking out.”  
 _  
\--  
   
Remarkably, Rachel actually gives Santana and Puck a good description of the car that hit her and the two of them leave to follow the lead.  
   
Quinn doesn’t really know how to feel as the hours pass in Rachel’s hospital room before they can get out of it. She’s anxious to leave for a variety of reasons - most of them having to do with a now even more deeply-seated paranoia about Rachel. She’s caught somewhere between intense happiness that her wife is alive and that her _son_ (and god, she gets a stupid feeling right in the center of her chest when she thinks about that) okay and the desperate unwillingness to feel that way with Pike still on the loose and the creeping feeling that it’s only the beginning.  
   
Thankfully, Rachel’s asleep, breathing deeply in her hospital bed as her body heals itself. The medication the doctors started her on is making her a combination of spacey and sleepy and while Quinn’s sure that Rachel will be annoyed that she’s wasting all her valuable time sleeping instead of doing something productive, she’s grateful that her wife seems to be doing better with every tick of the clock.  
   
The rain beats against the window and Quinn watches it fall in sheets over an expansive city. For a dark moment she thinks back to the days when the sight of the skyline held so much promise and opportunity; she’d see building after building and imagine her corner office and her face in the paper and despite the fact that she has all that now, she feels nothing but contempt for this city.  
   
She takes a deep breath and turns to look at Rachel in the hospital bed, letting it out as her eyes take in the steady rise and fall of her wife’s chest. All that promise and hope that the city used to hold, that her life used to hold, had transferred and entwined itself with this woman. It’s a terrifying thought, to know that she couldn’t truly survive without another person and all the promise they bring – but Quinn smiles anyway.  
   
\--  
  _  
“I don’t think we should tell people,” Rachel said, fitting an earring into her right ear.  
   
“Tell people what?” Quinn was still in bed, her back against the headboard as she watched Rachel waltz around the room getting ready.  
   
Stopping all of a sudden, Rachel propped her hands on her hips and observed Quinn’s position. “Are you going to get dressed?”  
   
“Yes,” Quinn answered, crossing her arms over her chest. “Tell people what?”  
   
“About the baby,” Rachel replied, moving again towards the closet.  
   
She hadn’t really thought about telling people - she had been too focused on dealing with the news herself and enjoying her wife to think about actually telling people. But now that Rachel mentioned it, her palms itched to grab her cell phone. “Why not?”  
   
“A lot of reasons,” Rachel said, coming back into the room and throwing a dress on the bed.  
   
Quinn arched an eyebrow at a black dress she recognized as her own on the end of the bed. “That won’t fit you,” she commented, pointing at the outfit.  
   
“It’s for you, get dressed,” Rachel ordered.  
   
Rolling her eyes, Quinn swung her legs off the bed and stood. “Name one reason.”  
   
“It’s a big deal,” Rachel answered promptly, opening a drawer in her dresser and rummaging around in it.  
   
“Well yeah,” Quinn said, picking the dress up and observing it. “That’s why we should tell people.”  
   
“No, that’s why we should throw an announcement party,” Rachel argued, finding what she was looking for and stepping away to turn towards Quinn.  
   
Quinn laughed. “Of course.”  
   
They were silent for a while after that as they each went about their task of getting dressed and Quinn thought about the reactions of their friends when they found out. “Santana’s going to freak,” she commented absently.  
   
“Mmmm,” Rachel hummed affirmatively. “Probably.”  
   
“Brittany will be so - ” Quinn laughed as she searched for a pair of heels to match the dress, before choking on the words and realizing what she was saying. “I mean,” she stuttered and her eyes went wide. “Never mind.”  
   
She felt Rachel freeze behind her in the room, perched on the edge of the bed, a shoe in one hand as she turned to look at Quinn with a concerned expression.  
   
Shaking her head and trying to laugh nonchalantly, Quinn went back to her task of picking shoes out, but Rachel walked into their closet and wrapped her arms around Quinn’s waist, warm and tight.  
   
She swallowed and looked down, pressing a hand to Rachel’s arm and squeezing her eyes shut for a long, pained moment, sinking backwards into her wife’s warm body to soothe it.  
 _  
\--  
   
It seems like it takes days before Santana shows back up at the hospital, but when she does Quinn’s heart tightens in her chest and fear shoots through her at the dirt and blood smeared on Santana’s face.  
   
“Holy shit, what happened?”  
   
Santana is gasping for breath and her eyes are wide and Quinn doesn’t think she’s seen her friend this out of sorts in a long time.  
   
“Explosion,” Santana pants, her arms flying out in a circular gesture that is apparently meant to represent an explosion. “Puck.”  
   
Quinn jerks back and gasps. “No,” she breathes, her head lightening at an alarming rate at the thought of Puck -  
   
“No, no,” Santana gets out, grabbing Quinn’s bicep. “He’s okay, he’s in the operating room right now.”  
   
“There was an explosion?”  
   
Santana nods, gesticulating with sweeping arm movements. “The warehouse,” she explains. “His car. Boom.”  
   
“ _Fuck_ ,” Quinn lets out.  
   
“Yeah,” Santana says shaking her head and swiping a palm over her face. “Listen, is Berry getting out of here any time soon?”  
   
“I’m trying to get her discharged as soon as I can.”  
   
Santana nods and squeezes her arm briefly. “Come to the apartment,” she orders.  
   
Quinn sees the way Santana is barely standing, the way her eyes are having trouble focusing and she barrels forward, pulling Santana into her arms and squeezing. “It’ll be okay,” she mumbles, feeling Santana’s arms wrap around her back.  
   
“I know,” Santana whispers back and Quinn can hear tears there. “ _Fuck._ ”  
   
“It’s Puck,” Quinn jokes. “Nothing stops Puckzilla.”  
   
Hot breath hits Quinn’s hair as Santana laughs and Quinn rubs a hand down Santana’s back. They let go of each other and Santana smiles softly at Quinn. “Come to the apartment when you get out of here, okay?”  
   
It’s mostly just desperation for everything to be normal again but it’s partly because she needs to alleviate some of the pain she sees forming around Santana’s eyes. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were worried about me.”  
   
Santana laughs and starts walking backwards. “More like I’m going to need a good lawyer when this is all over.”  
   
\--  
   
It’s not hard to get Rachel discharged after that and after she signs all the important papers and rounds up some scrubs for Rachel to wear home, they make their way out of the hospital with a bag full of medication and gauze in Quinn’s hands.  
   
When they step outside the doors, Quinn has never been more grateful to feel rain on her face in her entire life.  
   
“How you feeling?” Quinn asks for the umpteenth time as they walk up the steps to their home.  
   
“I’m fine,” Rachel grates out, pain evident in her clenched jaw and the way she leans heavily into Quinn’s side.  
   
Quinn sighs. “We should have gone straight to Santana’s.”  
   
“I’m not showing up to Santana’s apartment in borrowed hospital scrubs,” Rachel says as they top the stairs and make their way to the doors. “I can’t believe I even walked out in public in the first place dressed like this.”  
   
Rachel continues her tirade on the ills of living in constant fear of the paparazzi and how they shouldn’t even be staying at Santana’s in the first place as Quinn unlocks their front door and helps Rachel across the threshold.  
   
They make it to their bedroom though it feels like an eternity to Quinn who feels every wince and grimace that Rachel makes like a knife to the chest that twists just a little deeper when Rachel gives a little whimper at the turn off the second and third floors. She lets go of her wife as they round the corner to their massive bedroom closet and Rachel sits on a small bench in the middle of all the shelves.  
   
“What do you want?” Quinn gestures to Rachel’s side of the large space. Rachel just shrugs and fiddles with the hem of the blue scrub top draped over her shoulders.  
   
Sighing, Quinn grabs for the first pair of sweatpants on Rachel’s shelf, noticing absently that they’re actually _Quinn’s_ sweatpants, and then for a t-shirt two shelves over. She sets them down next to Rachel and then motions for her wife to stand.  
   
It takes some slow and careful maneuvering but they manage to get Rachel’s shirt off of her and Quinn’s left staring at the stark white bandage wrapped around Rachel’s ribs and the bruising trailing down her side.  
   
Running her fingers softly down Rachel’s side, Quinn struggles to keep a lock on all her emotions, but they beat against the walls of her chest insistently and she has to clench her jaw to stop the tears she knows are right there. The urge to strike out surfaces again and Rachel must sense it, because her hand darts out to grab the one Quinn is tracing over the bandage around her ribs.  
   
“I’m okay,” Rachel whispers like Quinn can’t figure that out for herself.  
   
“I know,” Quinn croaks out, trying to pull her hand away and swallow the pain down.  
   
“No you don’t,” her wife argues, keeping their hands clasped together firmly. “You’re either ogling my chest, which is highly inappropriate in this situation, or you’re freaking out again. Call it an educated guess since we’ve been together for so long and I can read that wrinkle in your eye that means pain, but I’m going to go with the freaking out option. I’m _okay_.”  
   
Quinn shakes her head and blinks away the sight of the dark, purple skin down Rachel’s side as she lifts her gaze up to focus on Rachel’s face. It doesn’t really help though, because there’s a small, but noticeable gash on the side of Rachel’s forehead, held together by butterfly tape, and she sucks in another breath as she sees it. She feels totally and completely ridiculous because she had enough time to breakdown at the hospital when Rachel was still unconscious and even later after she was awake but here she is now, still dealing with it. Inadequacy and pain pours over her.  
   
“Quinn,” Rachel says, tugging her hand a little. “Do you think you could help me? I know you prefer it when I’m topless but it’s kind of chilly.”  
   
She nods and bends over to grab the shirt she laid aside, trying her best to push aside the swirl of emotion fuzzing up her brain. Maybe she couldn’t have stopped the car that hit her wife, or a million other things that threaten to destroy her life, but she can do this right here and now.  
   
Getting the shirt on is a little easier than it was getting off, but Quinn still feels every pained breath Rachel takes slash across her like a lash. Pulling the drawstring of the blue scrub pants, she helps Rachel step out of them and bunches the sweatpants up to help pull them back up Rachel’s legs, smiling softly when the job is finished.  
   
She moves to change herself but Rachel stops her with a soft tug on her shirt. “Hey.”  
   
Arching an eyebrow in response, Quinn turns back to her wife and looks everywhere but her forehead. “Yeah?”  
   
“I’m sorry,” Rachel mumbles, eyes flickering towards the carpet before coming back up again.  
   
It shocks the pain right out of Quinn and she straightens up as she steps closer to her wife and puts both hands on her cheeks, stroking the hair there out of the way. “What on earth are you sorry for?”  
   
“You told me not to go out,” Rachel starts, tears making her voice a little shaky. “And then I did and this happened and now you’re a complete mess and it’s all my fault and I just - ”  
   
“Rach,” Quinn interrupts. “Baby, you have nothing to be sorry for.”  
   
Rachel looks away and her face scrunches up like she’s going to cry so Quinn pulls her back and kisses her softly on the lips. Rachel presses back against her and deepens the kiss, working their mouths together for a long moment before breaking away.  
   
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Quinn mumbles, dancing light fingers over Rachel’s temple. She presses her lips against her wife’s forehead and feels the head shake back and forth as Rachel utters the single syllable, “No.”  
   
“I am,” Quinn continues, pulling away to look into Rachel’s eyes. “I am.”  
   
“No,” Rachel repeats, a small tilt to her lips. “How about we both agree not to be sorry and call it a day?”  
   
Quinn laughs. “You drive a hard bargain.”  
   
Smiling wider this time, Rachel pats Quinn on the hip. “Let’s go. You’ll feel better when we get to Santana and Brittany’s.”  
   
\--  
   
When Santana opens the door Quinn feels her own paranoia reflected in her friend’s face and in the way she holds her hand at her back, gripping a gun Quinn knows is tucked there, and she wonders what happened between the time she saw Santana at the hospital and now.  
   
Her friend lets them in and Quinn helps Rachel move towards the couch. Her wife lets out a sigh of relief as she maneuvers onto the soft cushions and Quinn presses a lingering kiss to her brow, inhaling the smell of Rachel softly as she tries to calm her nerves before letting go and walking into Santana’s kitchen.  
   
She has one thing in mind and she knows Santana won’t disappoint her. Sure enough, the cabinet Quinn opens is stocked full of liquor and she pulls out the first bottle of scotch she sees, pouring it into the glass Santana hands her and downing it quickly.  
   
Santana is worried about her, she can tell in the way she keeps eying the alcohol and asking questions, but Quinn focuses on getting her hands to stop shaking from the trip over. Being exposed in public like that made her wish she had chosen to bring a gun.  
   
She gets a few glasses into her system, the scotch settling warmly in her stomach, before the doorbell rings and Matt and Finn step into the apartment carrying large boxes full of files.  
   
When Santana asks her if she wants to help go through the cases about Pike she plasters on her best _you’re a moron_ expression and sits down, grabbing a file and opening it in front of her.  
   
She lets Santana and Matt and Finn talk around her, their voices buzzing incoherently in her ears as she strains to hear the sound of deep breathing from the other room.  
   
\--  
  _  
Out of nowhere, Brittany burst into the bedroom and bounded over to the huge bed in the middle of it, jumping up and nearly falling on top of Quinn as she laughingly pounced on the bed. Suddenly, Quinn started to rethink the wisdom of giving Brittany the emergency key to their place, but then her friend smothered her in affection and Quinn couldn’t help but smile at Brittany’s enthusiasm.  
   
“Hey Britt,” Quinn laughed, kissing her friend on the cheek.  
   
“Hey, Q,” Brittany greeted, squirming around until her head was on the pillow next to Quinn. “Whatcha doing?”  
   
“TV,” Quinn replied, gesturing to the flatscreen across the room. “Felt like being lazy today.”  
   
“Ooooh,” Brittany cooed, grabbing the remote out of Quinn’s hand and changing the channels rapidly._

 _“Yeah, sure, go ahead, I wasn’t watching that or anything,” Quinn said, chuckling.  
   
“Where’s Rach?” Brittany asked, eyes on the screen as she flipped through shows.  
   
“Rehearsal,” she answered, trying to focus on the quickly moving images. “She’ll be back in a few hours.”  
   
Brittany settled on a station and Quinn watched the credits of some reality show about a family with 23 children roll across the screen. “You watch this?”  
   
“It’s so weird,” Brittany whispered like this was a big revelation. “Their life is so different from mine, it’s like the opposite.”  
   
Quinn nodded sagely. “Well yeah.”  
   
“I wonder what it’s like to have that many kids,” Brittany added, throwing the remote to the side and shifting up a bit on the bed to see the screen better.  
   
“You want kids?” Quinn asked, surprised. She had never really thought about Brittany with kids, or Santana for that matter. They always seemed like this complete family unit that adding anything to the mix would have seemed weird.  
   
“No,” Brittany said, shaking her head noncommittally. “I’m just saying I wonder about it sometimes.”  
   
Quinn mused about the idea of it all, laughing under her breath. “Santana would be funny with a baby.”  
   
“She’d be really good,” Brittany said, smiling softly and looking at Quinn.  
   
“Yeah,” Quinn agreed, grinning at the image of her best friend and a little version of Brittany. “She would be.”  
   
“You too,” Brittany commented, still looking at Quinn.  
   
“Uh, sure, Britt,” Quinn said skeptically.  
   
“You would,” Brittany argued. “You and Rachel. That’d be cute.”  
   
“I’d make a terrible mother,” Quinn whispered, suddenly serious. It wasn’t something she had ever really thought about until Rachel, and even then, not seriously, not until now with Rachel bringing it up more and more. Quinn couldn’t help but thinking about her own childhood, about how she was raised and how she’d never want a child to go through that again.  
   
“You’d be so awesome,” Brittany breathed, propping her head up on her elbow and turning on her side to face Quinn. “Rachel would teach it how to sing, and Santana would teach it how to be strong and I’d teach it how to dance and you’d teach it how to be smart. That kid would be the bestest.”  
   
Quinn laughed. “I’m glad you think so.”  
   
Brittany stared at her, her eyes slightly narrowed and this expression on her face that Quinn recognized after decades of knowing the blonde. Brittany had this weird ability when it came to Santana and Quinn. Most likely it came from being friends for so long and spending the majority of her time having to cut through the bullshit that usually got thrown Brittany’s way, but whatever the reason, Brittany was able to see right through Quinn to the heart of the issue the way only one other person in her entire life could do.  
   
“You’re not your father, Quinn,” Brittany said, an uncharacteristic seriousness to her face. “Your mother either.”  
   
Shocked, Quinn dropped her jaw open and didn’t know what to say, but she didn’t have to because Brittany flopped back down and kicked her legs up and down. “You’d be so awesome,” she repeated.  
   
A laugh bubbled up out of Quinn and she glanced to her bedside table, a small, framed picture of her and Rachel sitting next to the alarm clock there. “Yeah,” Quinn breathed. “Maybe.”  
   
“I’m going to go make popcorn,” Brittany announced, jumping out of bed and practically running out of the room for the kitchen.  
   
Quinn pressed her head back into the headboard of her bed and watched the images on the screen, an older man attempting to round up a gaggle of kids.  
   
A million thoughts raced through her head that she couldn’t stop - most of them wondering what kind of parent she’d make, what kind of aunt Santana would be and how her parents would react to finding out she was having a child with Rachel.  
   
The thoughts didn’t stop until a loud crash and a shriek shot into the bedroom, muffled by the walls between her and the kitchen and she groaned as she shot up out of bed and raced out of the bedroom to go save her best friend from whatever disaster she was starting in the kitchen.  
 _  
\--  
   
It’s hours later before Brittany walks into the kitchen and Quinn nearly jumps in surprise at seeing her friend. She never thought she’d get used to Brittany not being around and now here she is - totally unused to Brittany actually being around.  
   
Her friend comes and greets her with a kiss to the cheek and Quinn smiles warmly and the familiar sensation. “Hey, Britt.”  
   
It’s not on purpose, but her eyes settle on Santana’s face as Brittany comes around the table and asks them if they’d like food, her hands settling on the back of Santana’s neck. There is a milieu of emotions crossing her best friend’s face - shock, fear, jealousy, smugness. She looks at the way Santana’s eyeing Finn across the table and she doesn’t have to be a mind reader to know what her friend is thinking. She shoots her foot out and kicks Santana in the shin, chuckling a little.  
   
She feels strangely at ease, much less nervous than she had before and she feels like maybe they’re getting somewhere; like she can sit here at this table and read these cases and somehow they’ll find a lead and they’ll find Pike and this whole thing will be over. She can take Rachel home and take care of her for the next few weeks and everything will go back to normal. Santana and Brittany will mend their relationship and her world will stop tipping off its axis.  
   
But then Brittany gets this look as she observes a photo over Finn’s shoulder and that paranoia that Quinn worked so hard to get rid off comes creeping back up her spine, her shoulders hunching in response.  
   
Finn looks quizzically up at Brittany and holds the picture closer to her. “You recognize something?”  
   
Brittany studies it and Quinn looks to Santana before her friend is saying words she didn’t want to hear at all. “It just looked like Mr. Fabray for a second.”  
   
Her head snaps to the picture and she strains to see the photo before her hand darts out and she snatches it out of Finn’s grasp.  
   
Sure enough, amidst the chaos of a crime scene her father is standing there off to the side, a leather jacket she recognizes on his shoulders. Shock, fear, suspicion, they all creep into her and any happiness or hope she had let herself feel earlier bleed right out of her.  
   
“What the hell?”  
   
Santana looks at it over her shoulder, grabs the case file but her eyes are just as wide in shock and fear as Quinn suspects hers are. “I don’t know, Q. I don’t know.”  
   
Quinn doesn’t know what to think, she just keeps staring at the photo in her hands, her eyes focused on her father’s stoic expression as she tries her hardest to separate what she knows about him from what she knows about this case. They can’t be connected, they can’t be. She looks around the scene and tries desperately to find something that will jog her memory but the image is unfamiliar and confusing.  
   
There’s fumbling and movement around her as Santana gets up and whispers something to Brittany but she can’t focus on any of it. All she sees is her father and Pike and Rachel and Santana and for a second she can’t breathe.  
   
Then, Santana’s pulling her out of her chair and ripping the picture out of her hands.  
   
“Hey!” She grabs for it, anger pumping through her.  
   
“Come on,” Santana orders, pulling her wrist towards the living room. Quinn pulls back and gets Santana to stop as they nearly knock each other over halfway between the kitchen and the living room couch.  
   
“What the fuck, Santana?” She tries to wrangle her wrist out of Santana’s grasp but her friend’s grip is strong and Santana stares at her with a stony expression, their faces close together.  
   
“You’re not going to do anyone any good just staring at a picture and doing an awesome impression of a fish. So come in here, have a drink and take care of your wife while I go and figure out what this is all about,” Santana utters, her voice low and firm. “Matt and Finn are going to stay here for a little bit while I go talk to Puck.”  
   
“Santana,” Quinn starts, needing to be a part of this right now.  
   
“Do you want Berry to wake up and you not be here? Do you think she needs that right now?”

It’s playing dirty on Santana’s part and both of them know it, but Quinn knows that it’s more for Quinn’s sake than Rachel’s. Maybe she’ll actually be productive if she can calm her shit down, and she can only do that right now if she’s with Rachel.  
   
“Okay,” she lets out on an exhale. “Fine.”  
   
“Good,” Santana nods, tugging her over to the couch and sitting her down on the edge before handing her a stout glass of scotch. “I’ll be back later.”  
   
Santana leaves, but not before talking to Matt and Finn and then Brittany again. Their voices are just a low incoherent muttering in the back of her head as she stares at Rachel’s sleeping form on the couch.  
   
She could make out what they’re saying if she wanted to, but she eyes the scotch in front of her instead, tipping the glass against her lips and letting the liquid warm her throat. Her hand rests on Rachel’s hip and squeezes as she shuts her eyes tight at the darkness swirling around in her brain.  
   
The door slams closed and she hears Brittany’s footsteps pad back into the kitchen and Finn’s cheerful voice saying something. Something presses into the side of her thigh and she opens her eyes to see Rachel’s feet squirming against her leg under the thick blanket. Her eyes travel upward to see Rachel blinking sleepily over at her.  
   
“Hey,” Quinn whispers hoarsely.  
   
“Hi,” Rachel yawns. Licking her lips, Rachel furrows her brow as her gaze flickers to the glass of scotch in Quinn’s hand. “Scotch?”  
   
Quinn nods and runs her fingers over Rachel’s hipbone absently, enjoying the way her wife’s feet press into the side of her leg warmly.  
   
“Can I have some?” Rachel asks.  
   
“No,” Quinn answers, looking at Rachel like she’s crazy and laughing a little.  
   
“Why not?” Rachel whines, her head lolling to the side.  
   
“A variety of reasons I don’t need to tell you,” Quinn answers dryly. She reaches forward to grab the bag of medication off the table as Rachel rolls her eyes at Quinn, and sets her glass down in its place. “The medication helping?”  
   
“S’making me feel weird,” Rachel complains, pressing her heels harder into Quinn’s thighs and reaching a hand forward to tangle with Quinn’s. “You okay?”  
   
“Yeah,” Quinn sighs, pulling out a bottle of pills and reading the directions taped to the side. “I’m okay.”  
   
Rachel hums a little and tugs on Quinn’s hand. “I can’t have one for another hour if that’s what you’re checking.”  
   
Putting the bottle back on the coffee table, Quinn smiles softly and leans back into the cushions.  
   
“You sure you’re okay?” Rachel asks with heavy accusation in her voice. “The pills are making my head fuzzy and I can’t tell.”  
   
Quinn forces herself to laugh and smile wider. “Yeah I’m okay. Get some sleep, baby. Your body could use the rest.”  
   
It takes a moment of Rachel’s confused staring for her to acquiesce, but she eventually lets out a long exhale and shifts around a little bit on the couch, pulling her hand out of Quinn’s and patting the cushion hear her chest. “Will you come sit over here?”  
   
“There’s not a lot of room on this couch, Rach.”  
   
“On the floor,” Rachel clarifies. “You’re just…really far away right now.”  
   
Sighing, Quinn stands and moves until she’s plopped on the floor with her back to the couch, legs stretched out under the coffee table and her head falling back onto the cushion behind her. Rachel runs her fingers through her hair and rests her other hand on Quinn’s collarbone.  
   
“Thanks,” Rachel whispers, her voice taking on that low tone she gets right before she nods off.  
   
Quinn brings her hand up to grab Rachel’s and thinks about the picture with her father, thinks about the bruising all along Rachel’s side, thinks about Pike stalking her friends and she’s glad she’s already sitting down because she’s sure she’d fall over otherwise. Her thoughts swirl around in the darkness for a scary moment until the sound of Rachel’s deep breathing breaks through and Quinn squeezes her eyes shut; she forces herself to focus on the things that matter, the things she can control and the things she needs to _protect_ and steels herself for the battle yet to come.  
   
“I love you,” she says softly, bringing up Rachel’s hand to her lips.  
   
Her wife mumbles something, half asleep and Quinn smiles before she sets her head back and closes her eyes once more.


	7. Part Seven

Despite feeling tired deep in her bones, Quinn can’t sleep. There’s just too much going on for her to really give into how exhausted she is, but she lets her mind relax a little and takes comfort in the sound of Rachel’s soft snoring and the warmth of the hand she’s still clutching. The room is dimly lit, and Quinn spends her time studying the television against the far wall and the shelving set up all around it. Distantly, she remembers putting the entertainment center together with Santana and Brittany when they first moved in. It feels like a lifetime ago. 

A door slams closed and she thinks maybe Santana came back already, but it’s Brittany who bounces into the room and smiles down at her. 

"Matt and Finn just left,” Brittany whispers, eyes flickering quickly to Rachel. 

Quinn shakes off the lingering lassitude in her body and moves Rachel’s arm away, standing and straightening her clothes out. “Yeah?” 

"Yeah, they’ll be back later,” Brittany replies, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “So do you want pizza?” 

Looking down at Rachel, she blows out a heavy breath before nodding softly. “Yeah, food is good.” 

“Good, because I already ordered it,” Brittany says. “It takes forever and a day for them to get here.” 

Quinn laughs and shakes her head as she looks back up at Brittany. It’s so weird for a second that Quinn doesn’t quite know exactly what to say or do. And _that_ just makes it all weirder. This is her best friend. The last six months aside, she’s known this girl her entire life. Yet, here they are, standing in a familiar apartment and she feels like there’s this huge gulf between them. 

Brittany seems to sense it too, and decides to do something about it. In a flurry of motion, Brittany flings herself towards Quinn, long arms wrapping around her neck as Brittany presses her face into Quinn’s shoulder and just like that all the space between them disappears. “I miss you,” Brittany croaks. “Like all the time.” 

She sucks in a breath and squeezes her eyes shut, bringing her face down to Brittany’s shoulder and wrapping her arms around the girl’s waist. Her heart feels like it’s beating triple time and she’s afraid she’s going to start crying, about missing Brittany, about Rachel, about Puck, about this whole fucked up mess she’s started.

“Yeah, B,” she whispers, trying to keep her voice even and low as to not wake up Rachel. “I miss you too. All the time.” 

Brittany laughs into Quinn’s neck. “I’m sorry about Rach,” she says. 

“Me too,” Quinn gulps, trying desperately to not look down at her still-sleeping wife. Heat spikes in the backs of her eyes as Brittany’s arms tighten around her neck. She doesn’t want to cry again, she feels like that’s all she’s been doing. And it’s useless. How many times can she cry about the same damn things?

Rachel stirs and Quinn whips her head over to check on her, crossing her fingers that she stays asleep. Brittany notices, too, and pulls away, her hands trailing down Quinn’s arms until their fingers are tangled together. “Let’s go hang out in the bedroom,” Brittany suggests, tugging Quinn’s hands backwards as she backs up and cocks her head towards the back of the apartment. 

Quinn almost bursts out laughing, her emotions swinging all over the place. Sometimes that question out of Brittany’s lips is more dangerous than anything else. But, in reality, the bedroom was kind of where Brittany did her best work. The bedroom was always Brittany’s remedy for life’s pain. Quinn or Santana would have a bad day and she’d pull them to whatever bed was close and snuggle them into the mattress until they felt better. The remedy was probably slightly modified for Santana, but the procedure was mostly the same. 

It seems like the most ineffective method for making Quinn feel better, but Brittany’s been doing it since they were kids and Quinn can’t help the longing deep in her heart at having it suddenly back in her life after so much time. Santana is good at a lot of things, but this was always kind of Brittany’s area of expertise. They work as a unit, Santana with the alcohol and Brittany with the hugs, and Rachel was just this added gift and Quinn didn’t realize just how broken she felt without Brittany until now. Brittany chuckles, winks and squeezes Quinn’s hands as she pulls her down the hallway and skips into the bedroom. 

Quinn kind of feels better already. 

Brittany pushes Quinn onto the bed when they get there and crawls in next to her, lying on her side and smiling with her head propped up in her hand. Quinn presses her back into the mattress, but turns her head to observe her friend, reacting to the smile without thinking about it. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Nemo curl up into a ball near the door, yawning and licking his lips.  

“So,” Brittany breathes. 

“This is weird,” Quinn admits in a whisper. It feels strange, caught somewhere between new and familiar, but Quinn likes it. 

Brittany chuckles. “Is it?” 

“You don’t think so?” Quinn intertwines her fingers together where they rest against her stomach and twiddles her thumbs around as she looks at Brittany.

Shrugging, Brittany looks down at the mattress. “Which part are you talking about, the part where I’m back, or the part where we’re all involved in some weird criminal brouhaha?” 

“The part where you’re back,” Quinn answers after a beat of laughter about the brouhaha. She looks away briefly as she asks the next part. “ _Are_ you back?” 

Brittany laughs and picks at the comforter on the bed. “Yes?” 

“Is that an answer or a question?” 

“It’s weird,” Brittany jokes, lifting her head to lock eyes with Quinn. “I feel like I don’t know what’s going on anymore.” 

Quinn hums lowly in affirmation. She can see Brittany’s perspective easily. When it comes to Santana and Brittany, to Brittany in general, Quinn feels like she doesn’t know what’s going on either. 

“I never thought I’d feel like that, you know? Not about this,” Brittany continues. “Not about Santana.” 

“She loves you,” Quinn says. 

“Yeah,” Brittany laughs. “I know. I wasn’t sure because I had been gone for so long and everything and we’d been together forever and I thought she wanted me to leave, but then she showed up at my apartment and just...” 

Quinn reaches over to grab Brittany’s hand and swallows against the emotions she can see flicker across Brittany’s face. 

“She’s Santana, you know?” Brittany whispers, squeezing Quinn’s hand and smiling lightly. 

“Yeah,” Quinn agrees. “She is.” 

“I just want to come home,” Brittany confesses. 

“I’m glad,” Quinn replies her voice soft, but firm. “Santana will come around and figure it out, B. She always does.” 

“I know. We’re going to be okay,” Brittany says. 

“Yeah, you will be.” 

Brittany blows out a long breath, her shoulders sagging as she does it before she smiles wider and shifts to snuggle up against Quinn’s shoulder. “Everything else is going to be okay too, Q.” 

For the first time that night, Quinn allows herself a shred of hope that Brittany’s right. 

\--

_The first night after Quinn and Rachel broke up early on in their relationship, Quinn spent the night at Santana and Brittany’s in complete misery. When things went wrong in her life it was kind of default setting to show up at their apartment - it was how it had always been with the three of them. At the end of the day, no matter what happened with the rest of the world, Quinn would always have Santana and Brittany around to be there for her. It was one of the few things she never doubted._

_Santana was grumpy about the whole thing of course and maintained that Quinn was better off without Rachel, but Brittany was just about the best dose of medicine for a broken heart anyone could ask for. This was mostly because Brittany believed with certainty she could solve the world’s problems with hugs._

_So, after the initial shock of Rachel walking out on her wore off and Quinn made it all the way to her friends’ place, she spent the next few hours on Santana and Brittany’s bed watching stupid action flicks and snuggled into Brittany’s side._

_“Don’t you have finals to be studying for?” Santana grumbled, walking through the bedroom to open the closet. Nemo, their small cocker spaniel, trotted in behind her and jumped up on the bed, curling up against Quinn’s legs._

_“I’m taking one day to wallow in my misery,” Quinn answered, closing her eyes as Brittany’s hands stroked through her hair. “I start tomorrow.”_

_“Whatever,” Santana replied rolling her eyes. “This whole thing is pathetic.”_

_“Santana,” Brittany admonished, looking at her girlfriend over the top of Quinn’s head. “Be nice.”_

_“I am being nice,” Santana said, pulling out a black sweatshirt from inside the closet and tugging it over her head. “I offered Quinn my best bottle of scotch, didn’t I?”_

_“Alcohol is not the answer to every problem,” Brittany said and Quinn breathed in against the fabric of Brittany’s shirt, inhaling sweat pea and vanilla and realizing absently that the shirt Brittany was wearing was actually Santana’s._

_“The only problem alcohol isn’t the answer to is alcoholism,” Santana deadpanned, walking over the bed and plopping down on the edge._

_“That’s super comforting to hear you say,” Brittany joked and Quinn could hear the smile without having to look up. Listening to the banter between her friends was soothing in a way, healing the cracks in her composure that Rachel’s leaving had left._

_Santana pulled a sock on and crossed her legs to pull on the next one. “Whatever. If Quinn’s not going to be studying we should be going out and doing something to take her mind off the whole thing.”_

_“We_ are  _doing something,” Brittany retorted, running a hand down Quinn’s back. “We’re snuggling.”_

_The bed moved as Santana stood up and twirled, laughing. “As if hugs can cure all the world’s evils better than a stiff drink and a night out.”_

_She didn’t have to look up to know Brittany was glaring at Santana, she could see the reaction all over Santana’s face - her super badass, mega tough friend was totally weak when it came to Brittany. “Whatever,” Santana said again, throwing her hands up a little in defeat._

_Quinn laughed and shifted her head a little as Brittany twisted strands of her hair around. “You’re so the better friend,” she mumbled loud enough that Santana could hear her but soft enough that it seemed unintentional._

_“I heard that,” Santana grumbled._

_“It’s going to be okay, Q,” Brittany murmured, laughing at Santana. “She’ll come around.”_

_“Santana will never come around,” Quinn laughed, turning a little to look at her friend in question. Santana rolled her eyes at both of them and threw her hands up in defeat._

_“No,” Brittany chuckled. “I meant Rachel.”_

_Inhaling sharply, Quinn blinked against the sudden onslaught of tears overwhelming her at the thought of her now-ex-girlfriend. It didn’t feel like she should be so upset, and Santana had said as much, but it still stung so much more than she could have expected. “I hope so,” she whispered. She could hear Santana shuffling around the room as Quinn pressed her cheek further into Brittany’s shoulder and closed her eyes._

_“She will,” Brittany said with calm certainty._

_“Lethal Weapon 4,” Santana announced, popping a DVD into their player across the room and jumping onto the bed. “If we’re not going to get drunk we’re going to watch a decent movie.”_

\--

Quinn hears Rachel before she sees her, a muffled crash that has Quinn rolling out of bed quickly and a very un-Rachel like curse word floating down the hallway from the living room. Laughing a little, she sends a look to a bemused Brittany and walks back towards her wife, her hands already on her hip and an eyebrow raised when Rachel comes into view. 

“What are you doing?” The question comes out of Quinn’s mouth with heavy censure as she watches Rachel try to gather herself off the floor after presumably rolling off the couch.

“That should be obvious,” Rachel mumbles, clearly annoyed. 

Quinn crosses the distance between them and holds on to Rachel’s bicep, helping her stand steadily on her feet and glaring at her. “Rach, you shouldn’t be moving. Your ribs need time to heal.” 

“My ribs are fine,” Rachel argues, staring at Quinn. Her eyes are wide, her jaw dropped open a fraction and her head is slowly waving back and forth as if she can’t keep it still. Quinn notes the bottle of organic pain killers sitting on the coffee table. “I need to shower.” 

“You need to lie down,” Quinn counters. 

“I need to shower,” Rachel insists, shoving Quinn away from her and then rocking off balance from the motion. 

“Whoa,” Quinn mumbles, stepping back forward and grabbing Rachel’s arms. “Okay, fine,” she concedes, knowing that trying to argue with Rachel while she was both waking up and high off pain killers would be futile. “Let’s go take a shower.”  

Brittany laughs from behind her as she moves through the living room and heads towards the kitchen. “I’m going to call Mike while you guys are in the shower.” 

It’s an offhand, nothing kind of comment because it’s _Mike_ Brittany’s closest friend after Quinn and Rachel and it’s about the most normal thing in the entire world that Brittany’s calling him. But Quinn hasn’t seen Mike since Brittany left and the more that Brittany’s back the more Quinn’s realizing just how much her life changed that one night six months ago. 

“Tell him I said hi,” she tells Brittany in a soft voice and she can feel Rachel’s eyes on her. 

Brittany seems to realize the seriousness of the moment because her voice is low and even when she responds with an equally soft, “I will.” 

Nodding, and smiling at her wife, she strides out of the room, watching Rachel carefully as they make their way back to the shower. 

\--

They get back into the kitchen to see Brittany opening a pizza box on the counter and smiling at the food, the smell of cheese and pizza sauce making Quinn’s stomach growl. “God, that smells good,” she comments, coming up to the counter and observing the pizza over Brittany’s shoulder. 

“I know,” Brittany drawls, pushing Nemo away with her leg as the dog whimpers for handouts. “Pizza is the best thing ever.” 

Quinn laughs and grabs two of the plates Brittany had set out, setting one in front of a stool as Rachel maneuvers her way on to it. 

“Santana not home yet?” Quinn eyes the pizza in front of her trying to choose which piece to take. Choosing the first piece is an art. One she, Brittany and Santana had perfected over years and years of pizza nights. 

“Not yet,” Brittany answers, staring with equal intensity at the box. 

They both stare at the pizza, their shoulders close as they stand in silence. Rachel breaks the spell with a disgruntled noise, “For goodness sake, just choose a freakin’ piece. I know this is some sort of studied ritual but I was hit by a car and am starving. Think of your wife, Quinn.” 

Quinn’s eyebrows shoot up on her head and Brittany laughs, Rachel glaring at them from her perch at the counter. 

Before Quinn can lecture about how Rachel knows how important choosing the first piece is and how she should have more respect for their method, Brittany skims her hand over the food, fingers waggling over all the pieces before deciding on one and picking it up from the pie. 

“Finally,” Rachel breathes, barely letting Quinn set the slice on her plate before she’s chewing on it. 

Quinn shakes her head, a little disgruntled that her pizza ritual was cut short by her wife’s impatience, but her stomach is grateful as she sits down next to Rachel and starts eating her own slice. 

“Drink?” Brittany asks around a mouthful of food. Quinn nods, while Rachel reaches across the table for another slice of pizza despite not having finished the one she’s currently eating.

Brittany grabs herself a bottle of beer, setting it on the counter and then pours a glass of water for Rachel. A few minutes later she’s back at the counter with Santana’s bottle of Glenlivet and a short glass. 

Quinn lets out a grateful breath and watches as Brittany pours her the drink, sliding it across the counter until it’s next to her plate and putting the bottle on the counter next to it. Quinn takes a sip as the door to the apartment opens and her other best friend strides in, a wet, sopping mess. 

When Brittany left, Quinn took notice. She felt the absence in her life like a big gaping black hole floating next to her and next to Santana. She _noticed_. But the pain faded to a dull ache after the days turned into months and Brittany still wasn’t back. She learned to adjust, to train her body to deal with the void, to convince herself maybe it wasn’t there. 

Now, though, with Brittany back, giggling at Santana and smiling and pressed all up against her like they’re patched together, Quinn’s having trouble breathing. It all feels so transient, like this moment is just a small reprieve before Brittany’s out the door again. 

It’s stupid to think because Brittany basically told her moments ago that she was _back_ back and Santana’s clutching her like she never wants to let go, but she’s failing to enjoy this moment because she’s so worried about the next. When she looks at her friends, standing together and smiling at each other like they’re still in love and happy and _perfect,_ all she sees is Brittany crying on her doorstep as she says goodbye and Santana shooting tequila at Rick’s. All she sees is Brittany leaving and all she feels is pain. 

Rachel bumps against her, then, and smiles, her cheeks full of pizza, sauce on her lips. It’s a small thing, the thing that’s kept her sane for all these months and years. Santana starts shaking out her hair as she settles down next to Brittany, then, and her small, happy thing starts snapping about the sanctity of pizza.

Santana snaps back, and Brittany talks to Quinn over their argument, and Nemo circles the table with whines. It’s familiar. It’s normal. Quinn forgets, for a little bit. 

\--

Rachel insists that they sleep on the couch for some reason, which sort of irks Quinn because Santana offered them a bed she knows is soft and comfortable and spacious enough for both of them. But stubborn is Rachel’s baseline attitude, so Quinn knew she wasn’t really going to win that argument. 

So here she is, on the floor of her best friend’s living room with her wife next to her on the couch and her two best friends having sex in a bedroom down the hall. 

At least  _some_ things are getting back to normal. At this point, the sound of their debauchery is just background noise.

“Go to sleep,” Rachel orders, her hand dangling over the side of the couch towards Quinn’s body, sometimes tugging at the collar of Quinn’s t-shirt for no discernible reason.

“I can’t,” Quinn replies, hitting Rachel’s fingers with hers softly. She doesn’t even bother asking how Rachel could tell she wasn’t asleep.

“Why not?” Rachel shifts, but still doesn’t open her eyes, her fingers tapping back against Quinn’s. It distracts her, just a little bit.

“Can’t you hear them having sex?” Quinn hisses, ending the question with an incredulous laugh. 

This time Rachel turns her head and opens her eyes to look at Quinn. “No. And if you can, then you should ignore it, considering you’ve likely heard it at least four hundred times before. Go to sleep.” 

“I can’t,” Quinn grumbles, dropping her hand to her stomach. Rachel’s fingers search for hers and find her chest instead.

“We could have sex,” Rachel offers, smirking. “That would probably distract you.” 

The offer is appealing, and distracting because Rachel’s leaning over the bed a little and brown hair is falling over her shoulders, and her fingers are where they are and Quinn’s just always found Rachel extremely attractive. That, and her body always seems to overrule her brain when Rachel looks at her like that. 

“No,” Quinn replies firmly, snapping out of her small Rachel induced trance, pointedly looking away and staring at the ceiling. 

Rachel laughs - this deep, throaty laugh that does nothing for Quinn’s resolve. 

“Go to sleep,” Quinn commands. 

“I was!” Rachel exclaims, laughing. 

“Will you stop laughing at me?” 

“Will you come up here and kiss me?” 

Quinn frowns, feeling petulant. “No.” 

Rachel’s fingers move upwards and end up poking Quinn in the cheek and she swats at them, irritated. “Stop it.” 

“Why are you so cranky?” Rachel’s still laughing and Quinn rolls her eyes. Of all the times for Rachel to get all slaphappy. 

“Oh I don’t know.” She holds her finger in the air to tick of the reasons. “I’m sleeping on the floor. My two friends are going at it like rabbits in the other room. You got hit by a _car._ There’s a picture out there of my father linked to a crazy madman. My entire life feels like it’s getting hit with a two by four.” 

Rachel grabs her hand and pulls it towards her. “I love you.” 

Quinn swallows. This moment feels so much more serious than the last and fear, hot and sudden, bubbles up in her chest, her heart pounding as she really, truly thinks about all the implications of what’s going on around them. Rachel’s hands tighten around her own, like she can read it off her face.

“Quinn,” Rachel says, her voice soft and low, all hints of the early drug-induced laughter gone. “It’s going to be okay. I love you and it’s all going to be okay.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Quinn says, swallowing and willing the adrenaline out of her body. She’s trying to contol her voice, keep tears out of her eyes, but Rachel knows. Rachel always knows.

“No you don’t,” Rachel counters, gripping her hand tighter, “but I’ll keep reminding you.” 

“Thanks,” Quinn replies softly. 

“You’re welcome. Now come up here and let’s have sex.” 

“Oh my _God,”_ Quinn groans, pulling her hand away and covering her eyes as she lets out a long stream of laughter. 

She hears a low moan following hers from down the hallway that she unfortunately recognizes as Santana.

“Now, I did hear that,” Rachel mutters. “Are you sure you don’t want to have sex? We could try and out-noise them.”

It’s going to be a long night.  

\--

_Quinn did not mean to get this drunk. Honestly. Getting this drunk was not really in her game plan for the night, but apparently it had been in Santana’s because here they were. Drunker than Quinn’s been in awhile as they tried to figure out how exactly to get home._

_“We should call Brittany,” Quinn suggested, blinking slowly at the cement sidewalk under her feet. She tried to follow the lines and keep herself straight, but she didn’t think she was really succeeding, because her feet seemed to have a different agenda._

_Santana looped her arm through Quinn’s and pulled them both forward, still swaying a little as they walked. “Can’t,” Santana answered._

_“We should call Brittany,” Quinn repeated, the words slurring a little as Santana swayed abruptly to the side, bringing Quinn with her._

_“Can’t,” Santana replied again, clearly undisturbed that she had answered Quinn’s question twice. “She’s doing some movie thing with Mike. Told her I wouldn’t bother her.”_

_Quinn pulled Santana to the left as they sidestepped a pedestrian, but she stumbled a little, hitting her shoulder against the brick wall of a store front before straightening and trying to walk again, Santana clutching at her arm._

_“Rach will come get us,” Quinn said, clearing her throat._

_“Working,” Santana said, licking her lips audibly as she peered at Quinn. “That show, whatsit. That show tonight. She’s in that show.”_

_“_ Chicago,” _Quinn supplied, blinking at the earnest expression on Santana’s face. If she weren’t so drunk she’d question her friend further as to why she knew Rachel’s schedule so well. The_ Chicago _thing was just a workshop for possible investors, not anything too fancy._

_“That’s the one!” Santana exclaimed, snapping her fingers at a businessman smoking a cigarette at the bus station._

_“S’over,” Quinn said, squeezing Santana’s arm further into her side and smiling warmly at the now bewildered stranger. “It’s like, over now maybe. She’ll come get us.”_

_“No.” Santana shook her head and bumped her shoulder into Quinn’s. They stopped at the crosswalk and Santana looked to her left and then to her right before tilting her head up to observe the street sign. “I can do it. Let’s go left.”_

_Quinn let herself get pulled drunkenly back down the sidewalk on to some street that she was having trouble recognizing._

_“Where are we going?”_

_“Home,” Santana answered definitively._

_“Do you even know where we are?”_

_“I’m a fucking cop,” Santana spat. “I could do this drunk, sober, asleep, fucking, fucking whatever. I can figure it out.”_

_“Yeah, okay,” Quinn replied, her head feeling way more heavy than normal. It lolled back onto her shoulders and she observed the dark night sky with pensiveness. “Think it will rain?”_

_“It always rains,” Santana grumbled, picking up pace._

_“Yeah,” Quinn sighed, blinking up at the sky still, trusting Santana to lead them._

_They finally arrived at Santana’s building after who knew how long and they stumbled past the night guard, Santana swaying in front of the elevator buttons for a few seconds before she was able to push the up button correctly._

_After a few moments of fumbling, Santana dropping her keys twice and Quinn pulling them into a wall, they finally got the door to Santana and Brittany’s apartment open and practically fell inside, Quinn tripping over the threshold and bringing Santana with her._

_Someone started laughing and it took Quinn a second to realize it was her only because Santana was shoving her shoulder and shushing her._

_“Stop shoving me,” Quinn hissed, trying to get the words out around her laughter._

_“Stop being loud!” Santana countered, her voice booming in the small entryway._

_It only served to make Quinn more hysterical, Santana swaying heavily into Quinn’s side, doubled over in laughter._

_“Wow.” A voice broke through the noise and cut Quinn’s chuckling off as she looked around to try and locate its source._

_“Rachel,” Santana drawled, her head rolling back onto Quinn’s shoulder. “Quinn, your midget is in my apartment.”_  

_Quinn turned to see Rachel standing in front of them, hands on her hips and eyebrows raised in amusement. Brittany stood behind her with Mike, both of them smiling, hands over their mouths to contain their laughter._

_“Rachel…” Quinn said, reaching out for her girlfriend and grinning when Rachel grabbed her hand._

_“Britt, why did you let the small person in?” Santana asked, frowning as she stumbled away from them._

_“I was looking for Quinn,” Rachel answered. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”_

_A wrist appeared in front of her face, nearly making her cross-eyed before her vision cleared and she was squinting at Santana’s watch trying to make out the time. “It’s late,” Santana whispered in her ear._

_“Late,” Quinn repeated, shifting her gaze to Rachel. “It’s late.”_

_“Yes,” Rachel said, sterner this time and with much less mirth._

_Santana pushed off of Quinn and took a few unsteady steps towards Rachel, pointing her finger forward and waggling it around a little. “Rachel, Rachel, Rachel.”_

_Eyes wide, Rachel jerked back slightly, and glanced back to a still laughing Brittany and Mike. Then, as if Santana just realized the other two were there, she straightened up abruptly. “Brittany!” She exclaimed loudly, then, in a lower voice, “Michael Chang.”_

_Mike moved towards her and waved a little. “Hey, Santana. Quinn.”_

_Quinn tried to wave, but her arm just sort of flopped lazily in the air.Out of nowhere, she got the sudden feeling that she had something of severe importance to tell Mike. It propelled her forward in his direction, letting go of Rachel’s hand, stopping a few inches away with what she hoped was a look of utter seriousness on her face._

_“How you doing there, Fabray?” Mike chuckled._

_She thought about that for a moment, and then suddenly the world started spinning, the floor coming up way faster than normal._

_“Whoa,” Mike intoned, moving towards her and scooping her up. She smiled up at him, grateful for not packing it on the ground._

_“Hey, thanks.”_

_“Hey you’re welcome,” Mike replied._

_Santana started laughing loudly and she looked over to see her best friend draped over Rachel, grinning at her, Brittany nowhere to be found. Rachel looked terrified._

_“Where’s Britt?” Quinn pressed her cheek into the shirt over Mike’s chest and squinted around the apartment._

_“Getting you water,” Rachel replied, glaring at Quinn and shifting Santana’s body around. “Santana, I realize you’re inebriated, but I’m not actually strong enough to support your entire body weight.”_

_Quinn heard the sound of Mike’s laughter through the ear pressed to his chest and closed her eyes as he started to move, walking through the family room until he was setting her down on the couch._

_He left and Quinn opened her eyes to stare at the ceiling, wishing it would stop spinning._

_“Thank you, Mike,” she heard Rachel say before she turned her head to see Mike carrying Santana farther into the apartment, the distant sound of her best friend’s grumbling reaching her ears._

_Brittany’s face appeared in front of her, sitting down on the couch near her hip. “You should drink some water,” Brittany said, handing her a glass and smiling. As she sat up a little to grab at the water, a little of it spilling onto her hands, she saw Rachel over Brittany’s shoulder, scowling._

_“Thanks,” she whispered, bringing the glass to her lips and drinking. Brittany brushed a hand over Quinn’s head, pushing some of the hair away while she drank before standing up and moving towards Rachel._

_“You guys can stay here tonight. I don’t think moving her is going to be happening,” Brittany said._

_Rachel glanced at Quinn, then back at Brittany. “You’re probably right. Thanks, Britt.”_

_Bouncing a little on her toes, Brittany chuckled and wrapped her arms around Rachel’s neck, pulling their bodies together and kissing her on the top of the head. Quinn finished her water and let the glass fall from her hands to the carpet. “Of course, Rachers.”_

_Mike came back into the room and walked over to them as Brittany and Rachel pulled apart. Quinn pressed her head further into the couch pillow and blinked._

_“Santana’s all good, but she’s going to have a killer headache I’m sure,” he said. “I’ll come by in the morning with some Gatorade and extra strength aspirin._

_“Thanks, Mike,” Brittany replied, bounding over to him and wrapping him up in a hug too._

_“Hey, you guys’d do the same for me.”_

_Brittany stepped away and Mike moved to hug Rachel before coming over to Quinn. “See you in the morning, Quinn,” he said, grabbing her fist and pressing his against it._

_“Night, Mikey,” she slurred, smiling._

_Brittany laughed and then the next thing Quinn was aware of was the door slamming shut and Rachel coming to sit next to her on the couch._

_“Night guys,” Brittany called, striding back towards the bedroom._

_“Good night,” Rachel replied._

_“Love you!” Quinn yelled, laughing a little and reaching out towards her best friend. The movement nearly threw her off the couch, but Rachel grabbed her and kept her put._

_“Will you be careful?” Rachel sounded irritated and tired, and drunk or not Quinn reacted to the sound._

_“Baby,” she pleaded, managing to get her hand somewhere on Rachel’s body. “Don’t be mad.”_

_Rachel shook her head, turning to pull Quinn’s shoes off. “I’m not mad.”_

_Quinn hummed. “Kind of think you are.”_

_“Do you know how late it is? I was worried about you.”_

_“I was with Santana,” Quinn explained, licking her lips and trying not to fall asleep. “Santana wouldn’t let anything happen to me.”_

_“Santana was clearly equally if not more intoxicated then you considering that’s the most she’s used my real name in a conversation the entire time I’ve known her.”_

_Quinn laughed. “That was pretty funny.”_

_“Quinn, I’m being serious.”_

_“We’re fine, we’re here now and you’re taking care of me.” Quinn closed her eyes as Rachel’s hands pulled her jacket off and managed to remove it without dislodging Quinn from the couch._

_“Yeah, you’re lucky you have people around that care about you,” Rachel mumbled._

_“I know.”_

_Rachel stilled, but Quinn opened her eyes a little to see her smiling softly._

\--

In the morning, Quinn’s woken up by a familiar body bouncing on top of hers as blonde hair falls over her face and Brittany’s laughter breaks through the sleepy haze fogging her brain. 

“Morning, Q,” Brittany whispers, perched on Quinn’s stomach. Long fingers pull up on Quinn’s eyelids so she swats them away and laughs, pushing at Brittany’s thighs to get her to move. 

“Morning,” she groans as Brittany stands and steps away. 

“I’m going to make waffles,” Brittany announces, staring at Rachel’s sleeping form on the couch. “You want some?” 

Waffles. _Brittany’s_ waffles. Quinn’s stomach growls as her heart tightens and she nods happily. “Yeah, waffles sound awesome.” 

“Awesome,” Brittany repeats with a grin, practically bouncing towards the kitchen. 

Quinn stands and looks at Rachel, brown hair spread over the pillow, chest rising and falling slowly. 

“Rach,” Quinn says softly, leaning over and running her fingers over Rachel’s forehead lightly. “Rach, wake up.” 

Rachel’s eyes pop open alarmingly fast and Quinn jerks back. “Good morning!” Rachel says brightly, moving to sit up. 

Stepping back, Quinn grabs the pill bottle on the table next to her and eyes her wife suspiciously. “How are you feeling?” 

Rachel makes grabby hands at the bottle Quinn’s holding until Quinn hands it over. “Fantastic,” she answers. 

Brittany, who must have heard Rachel wake up, strides back into the room. “Hi, Rach!” 

“Hey, Brittany,” Rachel says with a smile. Brittany steps around the couch to give a soft hug and a kiss to the top of Rachel’s head. 

“I’m making waffles,” she whispers as if it’s a secret. 

Rachel’s head perks up as she looks at Brittany, her hands opening the pill bottle and dumping two of the small pills into her palm. “Fabulous,” she replies. 

“Good,” Brittany says with a nod, detaching from Rachel and exiting back into the kitchen. 

Rachel stands, a bit unsteadily, and hands Quinn the pills back, smiling at her and following Brittany into the kitchen. Shaking her head, Quinn grabs a small duffel bag on the floor beside the couch and rummages through it, grabbing out a new shirt and she and Rachel’s toiletries. “I’m going to go brush my teeth,” she announces, peering into the kitchen to see Brittany with her head in the fridge and Rachel leaned up against her back. 

At her voice, though, Rachel stands up straight and looks at Quinn, making her way back towards her and grinning in an entirely unsettling manner. “Me too.” 

“Okay,” she draws out, laughing at her wife. 

Rachel latches onto the hem of Quinn’s shirt and pulls as she walks towards the guest bathroom, stepping inside and running the water. Quinn sets her bag on the sink and shuts the door before setting her shirt down on the lid of the toilet and pulling off the one she’s wearing. 

She’s barely got her shirt over her head when small hands on her abdomen make her jump in surprise. Managing to pull the shirt off the entire way, Quinn chucks it on the ground and stares down into Rachel’s smiling face, as the smaller woman’s fingers drum on the muscles of Quinn’s stomach. 

“Hello,” Quinn says though it sounds more like a question.  

“You’re hot,” Rachel whispers. 

“Okay,” Quinn drawls, putting her hands on top of Rachel’s and pressing them into her stomach to hold them there. 

“Yup,” Rachel says, nodding slowly and focusing on Quinn. “You’re like really hot.” 

“Thanks,” Quinn laughs, letting go of one of Rachel’s hands to grab her discarded shirt. “Brush your teeth. Do something useful.” 

Quinn’s barely turned around to put her shirt on when Rachel reaches up with her free hand to grab the back of Quinn’s neck, pulling her head down to press their lips together. 

Responding to the kiss, because when her wife kisses her like that it’s hard not to kiss back, Quinn let’s go of Rachel’s other hand and grabs Rachel’s hips, pushing her back and pulling her lips away. 

“Rach,” Quinn admonishes. 

“Yeah?” 

Quinn kisses her again, softly, just because she can, before saying, “Brush your teeth.” 

“No,” Rachel argues. “Kiss me instead.” 

“Brush your teeth,” Quinn commands, maneuvering Rachel around by the hips to face the sink. 

Rachel mumbles something under her breath but obeys, picking her toothbrush up out of the bag Quinn brought and grudgingly starting in on her task. Quinn pulls her shirt over her head and starts to do the same, standing beside her, smiling when Rachel starts to hum her morning song.

\--

Brittany’s got half the contents of the fridge out on the counter when Quinn and Rachel return to the kitchen, and she’s mixing batter into a large mixing bowl, a bright happy smile spread across her lips as she makes faces at the dog bouncing around her legs. 

“Hope you’re hungry,” Brittany says, looking up as they come into view and cocking her head toward a plate of already made waffles set in the middle of the counter. 

Quinn strides to a coffee maker on the opposite side of the kitchen, ruffling her hand over Nemo’s head in greeting and exhales in relief at seeing the coffee already made. “Thanks for making coffee,” she says, reaching into a cupboard and pulling out a mug. 

“Coffee,” Rachel mumbles, shuffling across the kitchen until she’s leaned up against Quinn’s back, her head landing on Quinn’s shoulder blade. “I want coffee.” 

“No,” Quinn laughs, pouring the hot, brown liquid into her cup and setting it down. 

“Yes,” Rachel counters, poking at Quinn’s back. “Coffee good. I want coffee.” 

“I’m pretty sure there has never been a drop of decaf in this apartment in the history of its existence,” Quinn says, turning around and grabbing Rachel. “Why don’t you go eat some of Brittany’s waffles?” 

“You’re so mean to me,” Rachel says, squinting her eyes and pouting up at Quinn. “You won’t kiss me, you won’t give me coffee.” 

“Rach,” Quinn sighs. She can hear Brittany laughing from where she’s pouring batter into a waffle maker. 

“You know what?” Rachel says suddenly, straightening and widening her eyes. Quinn doesn’t like that look. That look is making her suspicious of Rachel’s shiny new plan. 

“What?” Quinn asks, drawing out the word and glancing between her wife and Brittany, setting her bowl of batter down and watching the exchange with amused interest. 

Rachel nods once and steps back, turning to walk towards Brittany until she’s standing in front of the taller girl and smiling, evilly. “Hello, Brittany.” 

“Hello, Rachel,” Brittany parrots, smiling. 

“Would you give me coffee if I asked for it?” Quinn rolls her eyes at Rachel’s question. 

“Sure,” Brittany shrugs, chuckling.

“Real coffee? With caffeine?” Rachel rocks up a little on her feet as she asks the question. 

“Whatever you want, Shortstack.” Brittany pats Rachel on the head. 

“Rachel,” Quinn chastises, but before she can get another word out Rachel is tugging Brittany towards her by the hem of her shirt and pressing their lips together in a kiss.  

To say Quinn is shocked at this moment is a gross understatement. 

He best friend and her _wife_ are making out. _Legitimately_ making out. Rachel’s fingers are still wrapped up in Brittany’s shirt and Brittany’s hands are now gripping Rachel’s cheeks and their mouths are moving against each others like they have no plan to stop. And from the looks of it, the comfort shown in the way Brittany’s fingers splay across Rachel’s face, they’ve done this before. Quinn doesn’t know whether she’s completely appalled or mildly interested. 

“Rachel!” Quinn finally exclaims, needing them to stop before she has an aneurysm or something. The pair break apart and Brittany is smiling like she just won the lottery before she breaks into uncontrollable giggles. 

“What?” Rachel asks as innocently as she can. “You won’t give me what I want so I have to go elsewhere.”

“That is a ridiculous argument!” Quinn puts her hands on her hips and glares at her best friend, who’s still laughing, one hand over her lips as she watches Rachel. 

“It is not. It is a perfectly reasonable line of reasoning. My logic is completely logical.” 

“You’re high,” Quinn says, shaking her head. 

“ _You’re_ high,” Rachel counters uselessly. 

Brittany laughs particularly loud at that statement and Quinn cuts her a glare again. “I’m going to go get Santana,” Brittany adds, pointing out of the kitchen before walking past them, still laughing. 

Quinn shakes her head and purses her lips at her wife. “We’re in the middle of a crisis and you’re high on pain meds.” 

“You make it sound so sordid and intentional.” 

“High as a kite and using words like sordid,” Quinn laughs. “Making out with my best friend.” 

Rachel takes a step back towards Quinn, smirking a little. “That was hardly making out.” 

“Well what do you call it then?” 

Grabbing at the bottom of Quinn’s shirt, Rachel tugs her forward and smiles up at her before leaning up and kissing Quinn hard on the lips. Quinn can’t do much but go along with it because Rachel’s fingers are scratching at the skin under Quinn’s shirt and her tongue is stroking inside Quinn’s mouth and she just really, really likes doing this. 

Rachel pulls away and smiles up at her. “That’s called making out.” 

Quinn can barely nod before Rachel’s lips are on hers again. The world sort of fades down to just this, Rachel’s mouth slanting against her own and she’s not aware of anything else but her wife’s body pressed up against hers until Santana’s voice cuts through the kiss, disgusted and mumbling something about infecting her apartment. 

\--

Breakfast is a strange affair, just like dinner was the night before because Quinn’s not really used to having the four of them together. That, and Rachel is still thoroughly enjoying the side effects of her pain meds, which means that Santana is having just about the most fun she’s had in ages and Quinn and Brittany are left listening to the two of them gripe at each other. 

To be honest, Santana looks so uncharacteristically happy and free compared to the last few months that Quinn doesn’t even want to intervene. She lets Santana and Rachel argue all through breakfast and Quinn couldn’t be happier. From the looks of the smile on Brittany’s face as she looks at Santana, neither can she. 

Santana leaves eventually because there's actually still a crazy madman out there that she has to catch, and Quinn is left in the apartment feeling both completely useless and charged with the most important of tasks at the same time. 

There’s Rachel and there’s Brittany and there’s this unknown, strange element out there that’s threatening everything good in Quinn’s life. She feels her knee shake in anxiety just thinking about it. 

Brittany must notice because after a few minutes of talking to Rachel, Quinn stewing in silence, Brittany claps her hands together and jumps a little bit. “You guys want to see a new dance?” 

“Yes!” Rachel exclaims, far too enthusiastically than normal. 

“Okay,” Brittany replies. Her friend walks over to Quinn and tugs her arm to get her to stand, maneuvering her to an open space in the living room. “Stand there, I’ll teach you.” 

Quinn rolls her eyes. “Brittany,” she sighs and her friend catches on to the tone almost immediately. 

“Q, I teach this to first graders, you’ll be fine.” 

“Yeah, baby,” Rachel says, grabbing Quinn’s hand and smiling at Brittany. “If first graders can do it I’m sure you’ll be okay.” 

She looks at these two women in front of her, all smiles and excitement and such a contrast to the dark rainy world that Quinn can see outside the window that she doesn’t think she should deny them this. 

“Yeah, okay,” she laughs. “Teach me.” 

\--

_Getting woken up in the middle of the night was something Quinn was used to. It happened often enough whether it was Santana calling her after a bad shift for a drink, or a client needing a late night bail out. Couple that with the fact that Rachel worked weird, strange hours and would often wake Quinn up when she finally got to bed and Quinn was pretty much used to not getting a full night of uninterrupted sleep._

_So when her phone rang loudly across a silent room and she rolled over in bed to see the clock flashing a mocking 3:00 at her she wasn’t surprised. What was surprising was Santana’s half amused, half worried voice on the other end telling her to get to the hospital as fast as she could._

_She shot up in bed and her heart sped up, the empty space next to her feeling wide and consuming as she stared at it and tried not to let her brain jump to the worst possible conclusion. Because the worst possible conclusion would devastate her._

_“What is it?” The question was soft but firm and urgent. “Just tell me.”_

_She could hear Santana pause and take a deep breath. “Everyone is fine, Q,” she said, lowly. “Just get to the hospital. They have to release Rachel into someone’s care and I can’t take her.”_

_Jumping out of bed, Quinn reached for a discarded pair of jeans over a chair and tugged them on quickly. “What happened?”_

_“She’s fine. Just come get her, yeah? She can tell you,” Santana chuckled a little and Quinn clenched her jaw at the sound. “She’s already screaming it to the whole damn hospital.”_

_“Be there in ten,” she said, shutting her phone and dropping into her pocket. Bolting out of the bedroom she barely remembered to slip shoes on before making it outside._

_\--_

_It took entirely too long to get to the hospital in Quinn’s opinion, but once she was there it was fairly easy to find Rachel in the relatively chaotic floor of the ER. It was made easier for her by the near shrieking sound Quinn was greeted with almost instantly; she would recognize that sound as Rachel almost anywhere._

_The fast rhythm of Quinn’s heart slowed as soon as her wife came into view and she let out a deep sigh of relief at seeing her in one piece and in true Rachel Berry fashion, berating the nurse in front of her. She could make out something like a demand to be released and a threat to sue the hospital because, “my wife is an absurdly competent lawyer and you will not appreciate her wrath,” and that was about when Quinn realized Rachel was totally fine._

_Well, she knew that until she stepped closer to the bed, weaving in and out of doctors and nurses, to see the bandage on Rachel’s wrist and the butterfly tape over her cheekbone. Her heart sped up again and her fist clenched, a strong desire to punch somebody, anybody, thrumming through her, hot white guilt following fast on its heels._

_Rachel finally took notice of her, stopping mid-argument and turning to look at Quinn, a million emotions flashing across her face as realization took hold. “Quinn!” Rachel exclaimed, eyes darting between the nurse and Quinn._

_Stepping closer to Rachel, Quinn put her lips to her wife’s forehead with a whispered, “Hey, baby.”_

_She stepped back and eyed the scene suspiciously again, trying to get her hands to stop shaking. “What happened? Where’s Santana?”_

_“Santana called you?” Rachel asked, sliding off the bed. She turned to the nurse. “Now that my keeper has come, I can go now, correct?” Quinn heard the agitation and frustration all over her wife’s tone and wondered what could have possibly gone down and why she wasn’t called right away. It would have taken Rachel some time to get to this level of contempt and Quinn hated the feeling of being left in the dark._

_The nurse waved them both away and walked to another bed with a roll of her eyes, so Quinn grabbed the sides of Rachel’s face gently and forced her wife to make eye contact with her. “What happened?” Quinn asked in a fervent whisper._

_“I’m fine,” Rachel said, grabbing Quinn’s hands and stepping in closer to her. “Can we go home now?”_

_“No,” Quinn replied, looking up and around the ER, but keeping her hands on Rachel. “Where is Santana?”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because maybe she’ll actually tell me what the hell happened,” she said, raising an eyebrow at her wife and pursing her lips._

_As if on cue, Santana took that moment to stride into the ER, Puck right behind her leading a disheveled man that appeared to be cuffed. It might have been three in the morning, but Quinn was an excellent observer and an expert in things like Santana, Rachel and criminals. So it only took one look at Santana’s face as her friend glanced between Rachel and Quinn and one look at Rachel’s as she noticed the guy Puck was leading around for Quinn to put two and two together and get four._

_So she did what any sleep-deprived, rational thinker would do. She lunged for the guy with her fist cocked._

_Santana must have seen the move before it happened because she shifted in front of Quinn with her hands up just as Rachel came up behind Quinn and grabbed onto her bicep stopping the punch before it could fly through, most likely into Santana’s face._

_“Thanks, hobbit. Chill, Fabray,” Santana ordered, indicating with her head for Puck to keep walking. “It’s handled.”_

_Rachel tugged her backwards, but Quinn resisted the pull and searched Santana’s face. “What happened?”_

_Santana peered around Quinn’s body to where she could feel Rachel standing and cocked an eyebrow. “She’s not talking,” Quinn provided wryly._

_A laugh threatened to burst out of Santana as she brought her other eyebrow up and looked at Quinn. “Call the presses,” she joked._

_“S,” Quinn sighed, tugging her arm out of Rachel’s grasp and glaring at her best friend._

_Rachel wrapped an arm around Quinn’s waist and leaned into her side. “It’s nothing, it’s fine, can we just go home?”_

_“No,” Quinn said, not looking down at her wife, but remaining steadfast in her glare towards Santana._

_Her friend propped a hand the gun at her waist and scraped the other one over her face to wipe away a smile before talking. “Berry here got herself into a bit of a tussle,” she answered._

_“What?” This time Quinn whipped her head down to look at Rachel in surprise._

_“I did not,” Rachel denied, narrowing her eyes at Santana. “I was helping a friend.”_

_“Right,” Santana chuckled. “She tried to beat the crap out of the guy for trying to beat the crap out of one of the dancers in her show.”_

_“I didn’t try!” Rachel insisted, taking a step towards Santana. “I succeeded, and I had to do it, no one else was intervening!”_

_Quinn let out a low breath and shook her head. This was so very like Rachel it was almost funny. Almost. Because there was a scrape on Rachel’s cheekbone and a bandage on her wrist and that made the whole situation very unfunny._

_“Anyway,” Santana continued. “The guy’s been in five times in the last six month for this same sort of thing. Gets drunk, attacks people, usually gay, spends the whole night screaming obscenities about sin to the entire holding cell. Something about his wife leaving him for another woman or some shit. Who knows? Normally I’d charge Shortbus for assault, considering she actually managed some damage, but-,”_

_“That’s ridiculous!” Rachel interrupted and Quinn rolled her eyes at Santana’s delighted expression. After years of being together Rachel should know better than to play right into Santana’s hand._

_“She’s not arresting you,” Quinn said before the argument got out of hand. Now that she knew the basics of what happened and that the guy who hurt Rachel was in handcuffs in the back of Santana’s car, she felt a lot better and she just wanted to go home where she could keep Rachel safe. “Thanks, S,” she said, reaching a hand out to squeeze Santana’s arm. “I owe you.”_

_“Single malt,” Santana answered as Quinn turned to lead Rachel away. “Preferably an 18 year.”_

_Quinn waved her off and laughed as she draped her arm over Rachel’s shoulders and strode out of the ER._

_“Arrest me for assault,” Rachel grumbled under her breath. It was cold outside, something Quinn hadn’t really noticed in her haste to get to the hospital, so she tugged Rachel in close to her body and walked quickly towards the subway station. “Ridiculous.”_

_Quinn didn’t say anything - she didn’t really trust herself to stay calm and rational through a conversation right now - so she just kept moving, making sure they got on the right train and walked the few blocks to their building._

_It wasn’t until they were finally home, in their bedroom and Rachel was undressing that Quinn let it all out._

_“What the_ fuck _, Rachel?” Quinn blurted out._

_Rachel jerked away from her as she stood in their large closet in only her underwear, her shirt held in one hand. “What?”_

_“You assaulted that thug?! He’s twice your size!” Quinn pulled her sweatshirt off viciously as she tried to control her breathing._

_Taking a deep breath, Rachel dropped the shirt onto the floor and walked to where Quinn was standing. “I’m okay,” she said softly, swatting Quinn’s hands away from where they were tugging at the front clasp of her pants. Quinn just kept glaring as Rachel popped open the top button of Quinn’s jeans._

_“That’s really not the point,” Quinn said, quieter this time but with the same intensity._

_“Isn’t it?” Rachel questioned, tugging the zipper down and staring up at Quinn with soft eyes._

_“The point is that you could have gotten seriously hurt,” Quinn gulped, Rachel’s knuckles brushing against her lower stomach shooting tension through her already tightly coiled body._

_“He was attacking Anna, Quinn,” Rachel exclaimed, pushing Quinn’s jeans down and bringing their bodies closer together. Quinn kicked the denim off when it pooled around her ankles as Rachel’s palms slid up her abdomen under Quinn’s shirt, the fabric lifting with the motion. “And saying entirely offensive things to her. He was a gay basher. I couldn’t just walk by. You should have heard what he said.”_

_“You could have called for help,” Quinn argued, lifting her shirt off the rest of the way and throwing it somewhere near her jeans. She brushed a hand over the bruising skin over Rachel’s cheekbone._

_“No time,” Rachel whispered, knocking her body into Quinn’s. “I can’t just walk away from something like that, Quinn. It’s not who I am. It’s never going to be who I am. I had to stand up for her and against the ignorance that caused that man to attack her.”_

_“I know that,” Quinn said, her hands moving down to grip Rachel’s hips. “It’s just not worth seeing you hurt.”_  

_Rachel smiled and twisted her arms around Quinn’s neck, pressing a brief, warm kiss on Quinn’s lips. “Some things,” she said into the space between their mouths. “Are worth getting hurt over.”_

_“When it comes to you, nothing is worth that to me,” Quinn confessed, resting her forehead against Rachel’s. “Absolutely nothing.”_

\--

There are a few moments in Quinn’s life that she’ll think she’ll remember forever - the day she met Santana and Brittany, the day she got accepted into law school, her first job, meeting Rachel, marrying Rachel, Brittany leaving.  

Most of them, aside from the last, are good memories, the best really in a long life full of privilege and happiness. 

The worst memory is probably of Brittany leaving, of that last goodbye at Quinn’s apartment and the way Santana looked later at the bar. It’s the kind of memory that keeps Quinn awake at night and makes her heart clench whenever she thinks about it. 

It was her worst memory until now. 

Until, in the middle of Brittany’s strange explanation of some new complicated dance move her and Mike were teaching the first graders this month, a gunshot resounded from outside the door seconds before it burst open, and Roger Pike, a face that had been haunting Quinn for the past week, strode into the apartment. 

They all jump at the commotion, Nemo barking and growling loudly from his bed across the room, but Quinn is shocked into inaction, her gaze stuck unwavering on Pike, her body unmoving. Pike is striding towards Brittany, already closest to him in the room, and Quinn is just standing there, Rachel next to her as it happens. 

It takes her a second, just long enough for Pike to actually get his hands on Brittany, a gun aimed in Quinn’s direction, before Quinn can move. But eventually something in her catches up to what’s happening and she snaps into action. 

Quinn doesn't think - she just reacts. It's a reaction set so deep in her bones that resisting it is practically impossible. The first thing she does when Pike grabs Brittany is pull Rachel behind her. 

The second thing she does is lunge for Pike. 

It's too late though, because Pike already has his weapon raised in her direction and Quinn's just not fast enough this time. Strangely though, she doesn't really focus on the way Pike's face looks, ready to kill, or the way Brittany's eyes go wide next to Pike. All she hears is Rachel's strangled gasp behind her and Quinn's never been happier to stand in front of a gunman in her entire life. 

She's heard guns go off before, a million times. Hell, she's shot guns herself before, but she's never actually been on the receiving end. So when a searing pain slices through her thigh and her leg kicks back she can't figure out what happened for a second. 

She falls face forward. The pain is the first thing that registers in her brain but she pushes it away to try and focus on the blurry image of Pike pulling Brittany out the door, grinning maniacally at her. It's all for nothing though, because she can't seem to move except to roll over as the sound of the door slamming shut bounces in her ear like another gun blast. Rachel is kneeling next to her and despite a desperate relief that her wife is clearly alive and breathing, she thinks about her best friend being dragged away and how she failed to stop it. 

Uselessness, guilt and self-loathing pour through her until Rachel's tearful face takes up her entire vision and Quinn's focus shifts back in an instant. It's painful. More painful than she thought it would be, but through all the hurt shooting up through her body and the strong, overwhelming urge to black out she can feel Rachel's small, warm hands on her cheeks, shaking her awake. 

"No, no, no," Rachel murmurs. "Quinn, Quinn, baby, stay with me." 

She doesn't know why a bullet in the leg is so completely knocking her out, but from the look on Rachel's face and the red smeared over her clothes she must be losing a lot of blood. Shit. 

A strong wave of desperation rolls through her and she grabs for her wife. "Rach," she croaks. 

"Shhhh," Rachel says, her voice full of tears as she lets go out of Quinn's face and pulls something out from her pocket.Her vision is wavering on Rachel's form, but she can kind of make out the phone in her wife's hands as Rachel brings it to her ear.

Rachel starts talking into the phone and in the back of Quinn's head she can kind of figure out what's going on, but her focus is torn between the pain shooting up her body and the hazy feeling taking over her brain. 

"Sorry," she gasps, fingers gripping into Rachel's shirt. The distant thudding sound of what must be Rachel's cell phone hitting the floor filters in through her ears as her wife grabs her face again and shakes it a little.  

"No," Rachel denies, gripping harder on to her head. "No, don't you dare just give into that, you hear me? Apology not accepted." 

Quinn tries to laugh but her vision is collapsing and it's starting to feel like she's floating in water. 

"Quinn Fabray," Rachel warns, shaking her head again. "If you so much as think of going into the light or whatever it is you're seeing right now, I will follow you into the afterlife and drag you out. And then I will make your life a living Hell. You know I can do this." 

Pain throbs in her leg and she tries to cling to it, scrambles to hang on to sound of Rachel’s voice still whispering intensely in front of Quinn’s face, but the sound is fading and the pain feels like a roaring in her ears, pounding against her temples and making it hard to think. She wants to sink into it, to let herself get dissolved into the carpet under her body and wake up on the other side. 

Something wet drops on her face and her eyes flutter at the sensation. Rachel’s face, her brows pulled together and pain in all her features, goes hazy. 

She thinks she gets the words out; she hopes she did. She wants Rachel to hear the _I love you_ she’s been trying to get out since she hit the ground, but she’s not sure it got through. The world goes black around Rachel’s sobbing face. 

 

 


	8. Part Eight

_Despite having told everyone she could get ahold of to absolutely, under no circumstances, call Rachel, the unmistakable sound of her wife berating someone in the hallway echoed loudly in her small room. She took a deep breath before calling out for her and moments later Rachel was skidding into the room, clearly having come straight from dress rehearsals. Quinn choked back a laugh at the sight of her wife in full show makeup._

_Rachel took slow steps towards the bed, her face a mixture of shock and horror._

_“Hey,” Quinn said quietly, unsure what to say. She sat up a little more in the bed, adjusted her leg and forced herself not to wince._

_One hand over her mouth and the other resting on the rail of Quinn’s bed, Rachel’s eyes examined Quinn’s leg. “What happened? They wouldn’t tell me anything.”_

_Quinn swallowed hard and debated for a moment how much she wanted to tell Rachel. “I got stabbed in the leg, slightly.”_

_Rachel’s eyes flashed with warning when they came up to meet Quinn’s gaze. “I can see that much.”_

_“Roy Smiticks, that mob case we picked up last week, got out on bail yesterday,” Quinn clarified though it didn’t seem to satisfy her wife._

_Gaze shifting between Quinn’s leg and her face, Rachel’s brow furrowed. “And?”_

_“And he, uh, he came into the courtroom. With a some kind of makeshift shiv. They’re still trying to figure out how he got through security.”_

_Rachel studied Quinn’s leg for a second more, her eyes darting back and forth in confusion. “Quinn,” Rachel finally said, the name more like a breath of air escaping than anything else. Quinn could see dangerous speculation all over Rachel’s face._

_“It’s gonna be okay,” Quinn insisted, grabbing at Rachel’s hand. “Don’t worry. He just nicked me. Only reason I’m here is because Ryan freaked out at the sight of all the blood. I told them not to call you.”_

_“Thankfully Ryan has more sense than my idiot wife,” Rachel snapped._

_Quinn rolled her eyes. “Of course he was the one who called. He only did it because he’s afraid of-”_

_“Quinn,” Rachel interrupted, the name full of warning._

_With a wave of her hand, Quinn put as much indifference into her tone as possible. “I knew you were working and I’m fine. It didn’t seem necessary.”_

_Rachel’s head shook back and forth, brown locks of hair tumbling over her shoulders as tears formed in the bottom of brown eyes. They’re quiet for a long moment before Rachel speaks, voice barely above a whisper, “You need to tell Santana.”_

_“I’m sure she’s already heard. Jared called and said Puck was the one that went in to talk to Roy after he got handcuffed.” Quinn laughed a little at the image. “I have no doubt_ that _sent a message_.” 

_“I’m not talking about_ this _,” Rachel said, her face serious. It only took a few seconds for Quinn to figure out what Rachel was referring to._

_“Rachel,” Quinn said in a low voice, tugging on her hand a little to bring her closer to the bed. “It’s fine. I’m taking care of it. We don’t even know if Roy had anything to do with that.”_

_“You are_ not _taking care of it, Quinn,” Rachel countered vehemently. “Clearly.”_

_“I’m fine.”_

_“You’re not fine, he could have hit a major artery, and you could have bled out all over the courtroom floor, and then you’d be dead, and I’d be-do you even have a will? I mean do you even think about these-”_

_Sometimes slapping a hand over Rachel’s mouth was really the only way to stop the talking. “Rach, baby, everything is okay,” Quinn said softly, but with conviction. “The doctors say I’m going to be up and running again in no time, and the boys took care of Roy right away.”_

_Rachel was nearly in tears, and Quinn was suddenly overcome with overwhelming self-loathing. She hated seeing Rachel like this and not knowing what to do to fix it. Slowly, Rachel pulled Quinn’s hand away from her mouth and tangled their fingers together. “You can’t keep ignoring it like this, Quinn. It’s too high a risk. If you don’t take care of it soon...I can’t...we shouldn’t...” Rachel trailed off, blinking against tears as she looked away._

_“Rachel, nothing is going to happen, I promise.”_

_It was silent for a long, heavy moment and Quinn watched various expressions flit over her wife’s face. Eventually, Rachel looked back down at quinn, but the smile on her face was anything but happy._

_“You know what they call this in my business?”_

_Quinn swallowed thickly. “What?”_

_“Foreshadowing.”_

_“Foreshadowing,” Quinn parroted, shaking her head with a smile._

_“Yes,” Rachel said, raising her chin and glaring at Quinn. “And it’s tacky.”_

\--

Strangely, when she wakes up, the first thing she’s really aware of is the rain, beating against the window to her right. It feels like it’s been raining for months. She turns her head to look towards the sound, but her vision is suddenly blocked by a nurse, standing over her with a chart in hand. 

“Quinn? How are you feeling?” The nurse observes her with a critical eye, reaching over with her free hand to press a button on the machine next to the bed. 

Quinn takes stock of her body, blinking against the pull of unconsciousness from the back of her brain. Confusion clouds her head, and she just looks up at the nurse in question. “What happened?” 

“You’ve been shot,” the nurse says gently. “Can you remember anything about what happened?” 

The memories come rushing back. Pike bursting through the door, Brittany’s face as she’s dragged backwards, and Rachel’s tearful expression hovered over her. 

“Fuck,” Quinn breathes out painfully. She turns worried eyes to the nurse. “My wife...” 

“Your wife is fine,” the nurse replies, checking things off on the clipboard in her hand. “She’s waiting for you in your room. She threatened a few people, actually, so she could remain there.” 

“Okay,” she says softly, rolling her head around her shoulders to test for pain. She feels a jolt in her leg when she tries to move her toes and the memory of Pike’s smile as he pulled Brittany away from her shoots through her brain. 

“From one to ten, one being pain free and ten being the most painful, how is your pain?” 

Quinn observes her and bites back the urge to say something smart ass. Pain? There isn’t a scale capable of measuring her pain right now. “About an eight,” she answers. 

The nurse checks something off on her clipboard, nodding before she turns to a small machine next to her and presses a few buttons. “We can give you something for that.” 

“I need to talk to Santana,” Quinn says with quiet urgency. “Santana Lopez. With the NYPD. Has she been told? I need to give my statement to the police.” 

“All in due time, dear. The authorities have been contacted and I’m sure they’ll be around soon,” the nurse replies with a careful smile. “Right now you need to let that leg of yours heal and let the medication do its job.” 

Despite every urge in her body telling her to jump out of bed and find Santana, find her wife, find _Brittany_ , Quinn doesn’t respond. All she can do seem do is let her focus blur in and out on the white ceiling above her as the pain medication starts to take effect and a fog rolls over her head. 

\--

_“I want you to meet with an old friend of mine Thursday evening at the Estoria Club.”_

_Pressing the phone closer to her ear, Quinn pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes closed. “And who would this friend be?”_

_“Stailer. Bill Stailer.”_

_“Stailer,” Quinn replied, leaning back in her desk chair. “As in...Stailer Capital Group?”_

_“Your mother and I have been friends of the Stailers for years. We used to summer with them. I’m sure you remember.”_

_“Dad, what is this abou-” she stopped herself with a shake of head, clearing her throat. “Is there a particular reason as to why you’d like me to meet him?”_

_“I want you to meet with an old friend of mine,” he replied in a tone Quinn was well familiar with. Her spine straightened as she took a deep calming breath._

_“Okay,” she said softly._

_“It’s what good daughters do for their fathers.”_

_She turned towards the window to see the waning rays of the sunset waft into her office. “I know. Of course. Just tell me when and where.”_

\--

Rachel is silent for the first few minutes they’re reunited and Quinn lets herself relax for a precious moment as her wife strokes hair off her forehead, the pain meds wafting a haziness through her brain ever so often. The room is quiet and still for the moment and Quinn hates how fragile it feels. Hates how she can see her own blood staining her wife’s clothes, can detect the nervous way Rachel is barely holding it together, her eyes red and puffy from crying. The memory of Brittany being dragged out of the apartment flashes through her mind, entirely too fresh. 

“I’m incredibly over being in hospitals,” Rachel whispers, voice barely audible over the sound of rain pounding against the big windows to their right. The sound is hoarse and Quinn winces. 

“Not exactly my favorite place to be either,” Quinn replies, clearing her throat a little against painful dryness. 

“Quinn,” Rachel says, eyes shiny. 

Quinn doesn’t know what to do other than nod and squeeze her wife’s hand. “I know.” 

“Brittany-” 

“Have you talked to Santana?” 

Rachel shakes her head, a bare tremor in her fingers where they’re still stroking over Quinn’s forehead. 

“How are your ribs?” Quinn asks, moving her hand out to settle softly against Rachel’s side. 

“Fine,” Rachel shrugs, setting her hand on top of Quinn’s. “Sore, but tolerable.” 

“And your head? The baby?” 

Brown hair shakes back and forth as Rachel replies, “Let’s focus on you, sweetheart. I’m fine, the baby’s fine, everything’s fine over here, I promise.” 

Neither of them move for long moments before a clap of thunder breaks their spell and Quinn tries to sit up. “Do you think you could find me a muffin or something? I’m starving.” 

Lips pursed, Rachel squeezes Quinn’s hand before letting go. “Sure, baby.” 

A nurse, different from before, passes into the room as Rachel exits. “Hi,” Quinn greets lowly and the nurse nods at her before hitting a few buttons on the computer next to Quinn’s bed. 

“Ms. Fabray,” the nurse starts after a moment.

“Mrs,” Quinn corrects, staring at the ceiling. 

“Pardon?” 

“I’m married. I’m a Mrs. Kind of. She kept her name. Sort of. I just...” Quinn trails off at the wide-eyed look on the nurse’s face. “I’m married.”  

“Of course, my apologies. I knew that-” 

“I’m married and I’m having a baby,” Quinn murmurs, feeling her own eyes grow wide. 

Quinn almost laughs at the flabbergasted look that crosses the young girl’s face as she scrambles to look at Quinn’s chart. “Not me,” Quinn says quickly, saving the girl from confusion. “My wife.” 

“Oh,” the nurse exhales, laughing softly. “Congratulations.” 

“Thanks,” Quinn replies with a tight smile. Her eyes blink slowly, focusing again on the ceiling. “My wife is pregnant and I got shot,” she says softly to no one. 

“How is your pain?” 

Quinn turns her head, eyes the bag of clear liquid over her right shoulder. “I don’t want the pain medication anymore.” 

“Mrs. Fabray, I-” 

“I don’t want it.” 

“Your injury is no longer serious, but it’s painful. If I were you, I’d-.” 

“Just scale it back,” Quinn interrupts in a firm tone, blinking her eyes against fatigue. 

“If that’s what you want.” 

“It is.” 

The machine by her bed beeps as the nurse fiddles with it and Quinn takes a deep breath, trying to get her head to clear. “Were my personal effects brought in here?” 

“They’re on the table to your left.” The girl points towards a clear plastic bag sitting just within Quinn’s reach. 

“Thank you,” Quinn says as the nurse finishes and begins to leave. 

She closes her eyes for a few minutes, taking deep calming breaths before reaching for the bag and fishing out her cell phone. 

\--

_“Quinn, I’ve known your father for years,” Bill Stailer crossed his legs in the large wingback chair across the table from Quinn. He picked up his snifter of brandy and smiled at her. “Exceptional man.”_

_Quinn tipped her head down toward him in deference. “Thank you, sir.”_

_“I imagine the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”_

_“I appreciate that, sir. My father speaks very highly of you.”_

_A waiter appeared next to her, bending closer and smiling at her. “Can I get you a drink, ma’am?”_

_A puff of cigar smoke wafted over the table and Quinn breathed in the familiar scent, her answer practically automatic, ripped from the pages of a Fabray Family Textbook. “Two fingers Macallan 18. Neat.”_

_“Good taste,” Stailer said gruffly, swirling his brandy around and smiling._

_“Thank you, Sir. My father raised me well,” Quinn replied in a practiced tone, letting the low murmur of the back Estoria cigar room wash over her._

_An arch of an eyebrow and a slow nod was the only reply Quinn got, but it coiled warm satisfaction in her stomach. This was a field she knew how to navigate easily, a game she had mastered at a very young age. She couldn’t fight the feeling of success that washed over her at the look of approval on her companion’s face._

_“I’m sure you know why we’re meeting today, Quinn.”_

_Quinn smiled as the waiter set her drink down and she reached for it, shaking her head slightly. “I’m sorry to say I don’t.”_

_“You’ve heard of my company I assume.”_

_Quinn nodded dutifully, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and chuckled warmly. “Largest publicly owned investment firm on the east coast. You manage nearly two hundred billion dollars in assets I believe. Everyone who is anyone has heard of your company, sir.”_

_Stailer hummed, took a sip of his brandy. “What are you plans after graduation, Quinn?”_

\--

She calls Ryan and asks him to bring over some case files, but it’s not her assistant that walks in the door mid-afternoon and Quinn’s brows come together in confusion. Sam Evans, fellow lawyer in the DA’s office, strides into her hospital room holding a stack of files in his arms with a wide, friendly grin. 

“Sam?” 

“Hey, Quinn,” Sam greets and Quinn just opens her mouth and closes it, unsure what to say that doesn’t sound rude. 

“Ryan said you were looking for these files,” he says, dropping the stack on the tray by her bed. “He asked if I’d bring them by and I said sure. Wanted to see how you were doing anyway.” 

Quinn can’t help the way suspicion flows over her, too much has happened the past few days and she doesn’t feel like she can trust anyone. Sam only recently started working in the DA’s office and he hasn’t done anything particularly untrustworthy, but Quinn feels like she can never be too careful. “Why didn’t he just come himself? No offense, but...Ryan’s my assistant. Don’t you have work to do today?” 

Sam shrugs, hands in the pockets of his pants and smiles warmly. “I did the morning calendar, took the afternoon off. Ryan didn’t seem too eager to come over here and it’s on my way home so…” 

“Ryan didn’t seem _eager_?” Quinn asks suspiciously. 

Sam laughs. “Honestly?” 

Quinn nods, totally confused where this conversation is going. 

“I think he was, uh...how do I put it…nervous about...,” Sam scratches the back of his head, cheeks a little red and suddenly Quinn knows exactly what is going on, replays the conversation she had with her assistant a mere hour ago when he stuttered through a _is Rachel okay with this?_

“He’s totally afraid of Rachel,” Quinn deadpans. 

“I mean…” Sam draws out, amused grin on his face. “He said something about how she wouldn’t want you working in the hospital and something else about like...getting beaten to death with a Tony award?” 

Quinn rolls her eyes and almost laughs. “You know, he’s known her for years now. You’d think he’d be more scared of...I don’t know...the woman who signs his paychecks.” 

Sam laughs. “So where is your better half anyway? Ryan seemed to think this was a dangerous mission.” 

“Getting food and making some work calls I think,” Quinn answers, her thoughts trailing off to her wife. “Hang around, I’m sure she’d like to meet you.” Quinn pauses, considers her words. “She doesn’t bite.” 

Sam laughs again as Quinn adds, “Usually.” 

“What’d you need this for anyway?” Sam says as Quinn picks up the first file. She flips through the front pages, tries to find the initial police report. 

“Just thought I could get some work done while I laid here doing nothing.”   


“You know we’d be happy to take some of your load back at the office. You were shot, Quinn. We all understand.” 

Quinn glances up, smiles, but shakes her head. “I’m capable of doing paperwork,” she replies though it’s not the real reason she had asked for the case files. She can’t tell Sam that though, can’t until she’s sure she can trust him. Everything is too raw and she feels better just keeping it all to herself. “My leg isn’t too bad anyway. They said I could be released in the next few days depending on how I feel.” 

He looks like he’s about to say something else, but Rachel picks that moment to walk back into the room, her face growing dark when she spies what Quinn is doing. Red heels click angrily against the tiles as Rachel stalks towards Quinn’s bed and Quinn almost laughs when she sees Sam immediately back away. The urge transforms at the angry sound of her wife’s voice and she curses the way her stomach flips over. Rachel is just... _attractive_...when she’s angry. 

“ _Working_. You’re working?!” 

Quinn looks back down at the file in front of her, shrugs casually. “I’m _reading_ ,” she clarifies. 

“Do _not_ split hairs with-”

Rachel’s voice cuts out as soon as she notices the other figure in the room, her face still flushed with anger but her mouth now paused mid word. 

“Hello,” Rachel says in an even tone as she composes herself, straightening and looking Sam up and down. Quinn sees the shift immediately from her wife to Rachel Berry Tony Award Winning Actress and New York Celebrity. 

“This is Sam,” Quinn offers. “He works with me at the DA’s office.”

“Sam Evans,” Sam says, holding out his hand and Rachel clasps it with a practiced show smile. Quinn almost rolls her eyes. “Good to meet you.” 

“Always a pleasure to meet Quinn’s co-workers. I’m Quinn’s wife,” she replies, emphasizing _wife_ in the same way she always does. The sound of it pulls a small grin over Quinn’s face. “Rachel Berry. Though I’m sure you knew that. I’m quite visible for my work on-” 

“Oh for sure,” Sam interrupts with a laugh. “I saw you in that production of Funny Girl a while back. Definitely Tony Award worthy.” 

Rachel visibly preens at the praise, but shrugs a shoulder, flipping her hair slightly in obviously forced indifference. “Thank you, I know.” 

“Rachel,” Quinn quietly admonishes, but her wife ignores her. 

“Plus, Quinn has like seven pictures of you in her office.” Sam continues and Quinn feels her cheeks heat up even though she knows full well Rachel is aware of what’s in her office. Four of those pictures Rachel practically demanded Quinn display. 

“Does she?” Rachel asks coyly, blinking flirty eyes towards her wife before looking back at Sam with an entreating smile. “Well, if you’re ever looking to see a show just tell Quinn. I’d be happy to get you tickets or backstage.” 

“Wow, thanks,” Sam replies, beaming down at Rachel. “I’ll totally take you up on that.” 

Quinn rolls her eyes, trading the file in her hand for another one while Sam continues to become completely enamored with her wife. If she had a nickel for every time someone fell under the spell that was Rachel Berry, she’d be rich. Well, richer than she already is. She doesn’t blame him though. She fell under the same spell years ago in a small, smoky bar with Rachel’s eyes dark as they stared at Quinn from the stage. 

Her eyes glance away from the file for a moment to trail up Rachel’s legs as she remembers the way Rachel’s voice shot through her body for the first time. If she tries hard enough she can still taste the blackberry brandy on Rachel’s lips and feel the spark when their bodies connected for the first time. 

Rachel’s voice breaks her out of her reverie. “Are you just here to see Quinn?” 

“Actually,” Sam starts and Quinn’s head whips up as she tries to communicate with him silently, widening her eyes in warning, but he doesn’t see her, fixated on Rachel. “I came to drop off some stuff from work.” He gestures towards the stack of files he had brought and Quinn closes her eyes, knowing exactly what’s coming next. 

“You’re the one enabling this behavior?!” Rachel’s whole demeanor shifts again, back to just her wife, her angry (albeit distractingly gorgeous) wife as she points an accusatory finger between Sam, the files and then Quinn. 

“Rachel,” Quinn sighs on a heavy exhale, trying to save her co-worker from her wife’s wrath. “Leave him alone. He was just doing what I asked Ryan to do.” 

“Why didn’t Ryan come then?” 

Quinn swallows a smile. “Maybe because he didn’t want to get bludgeoned to death once you found out about it.” 

Rachel throws up her hands in exasperation. “Once again your assistant has far more sense than you.” 

“Calm down,” Quinn all but orders and Rachel’s eyes go wide with indignation. 

“Do _not_ tell me to calm down,” Rachel bites out. 

The air gets thick with tension and she sees Sam backing up towards the door, his hands slightly in front of him. “I’m just going to-” 

“Go,” Rachel commands, eyes still on Quinn’s in angry accusation. 

They’re silent for a long moment, staring at each other before Quinn breaks. 

“You can’t actually expect me to just sit here all day and do nothing.” 

Grabbing the file from Quinn’s hands, Rachel affects a stern glare, jaw clenched. “Yes, actually. That’s exactly what I expect.” 

Quinn finally takes a good look at her wife and startles a little when she realizes that Rachel’s changed. The bloodied clothes they’d arrived in have been swapped out for a dress Quinn vaguely recognizes from Rachel’s massive wardrobe. She purses her lips and gives Rachel a pointed look. 

“Says the woman that somehow managed to change into _that_ while in the hospital,” Quinn bites back with a glance up and down Rachel’s body. The dress is ridiculously flattering to Rachel’s figure and Quinn has to force herself to stay irritated, her memories from earlier still thrumming through her. “Who’s working now? Any fans camped out in the hallway?” 

Rachel’s gaze narrows dangerously. “I’m sorry that my previous outfit was covered in blood.” Hands on her hips, Rachel looks furious. “ _Your_ blood. From when you were shot by an insane gunman while our best friend was kidnapped! Don’t you dare lecture me about-” 

Quinn changes tactics with a soft sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Rachel, come on. Don’t be like that.” 

“Quinn, you were _shot_.” 

“In the leg not the brain!” 

“You’re supposed to be resting. So you can _heal_.” Rachel turns her head towards one of the computers next to Quinn’s bed, eying it as if it makes any sense to her. Her hands drop from her hips and her posture softens. “Aren’t they giving you pain medication?” 

“I told them to scale it back,” Quinn shrugs, reaching for a new case file. “It was making me loopy and I have stuff to do that can’t-” 

Rachel snatches the new file out of Quinn’s hands before she even has a chance to read the first line. “Need I remind you yet again that you have been _shot_ ,” she emphasizes and Quinn scowls.  

“Getting shot doesn’t mean that the massive stack of cases on my desk just goes away, Rachel. We still have to find this maniac that tried to kill you, kill me, and kidnapped my best friend!” Quinn says in a low, dark voice, her heartbeat picking up. “Let me do my job.” 

Rachel looks at her for a moment, hovering between anger and sympathy, before she seems to settle on sympathy.

“Quinn,” Rachel says softly, her face falling. She sets the folders in her hands back down on the table softly. “That’s not your job.” 

Quinn takes a deep, unsteady breath, fingers tugging at the corner of the top file. “He tried to _kill_ you, Rachel. Okay? He took Brittany and I was right there.” 

“Santana will catch him,” Rachel starts, but Quinn interrupts with a grumbled but sure, “I’m smarter than Santana.” 

“She’ll catch him,”  Rachel repeats lowly, holding onto Quinn’s gaze, “and she’ll save Brittany and everything will be okay. You don’t have to play superhero.” 

“But Santana can?” 

“Quinn,” Rachel sighs. 

“I don’t want to fight about this.” 

Silence sits between them for a long moment and Quinn lets the sound of rain beating against the window lull her into a calmer state as she looks into her wife’s eyes. 

“I can’t just sit here, Rach,” she says softly. “I can’t.” 

Rachel reaches out and strokes the hair off Quinn’s forehead, her fingers soft against Quinn’s skin. “I know, baby,” she says softly. “But you’re hurt, and I’m hurt, and sometimes we just gotta trust someone else to get the job done.” 

“This is the only way I know how to do this,” she counters, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to do it any other way. I don’t trust-” 

“You trust me,” Rachel interrupts, expression open and honest. “Right?” 

Quinn breathes out, blinking against the heat behind her eyes. “Yeah,” she says softly and Rachel’s lips turn into a soft smile meant only for her. “Of course.” 

“Santana’s going to go catch him,” Rachel tells her with serious conviction. It tugs against Quinn’s ribs, pulls her towards Rachel in a way that’s hard to resist. “She’s going to catch him and you’re going to get better so you can throw him in jail for the rest of his miserable existence, okay?” 

“Doesn’t feel like enough,” Quinn whispers. 

Rachel’s eyes are dark, serious. “It is. It’s more than enough.” 

\--

_“Good work on this, Quinn.”_

_Quinn’s head shot up from her laptop, glasses slipping down her nose as she observed her boss standing in the doorway to her office._

_“Sorry, sir?”_

_“The Kenward case,” he clarified, stepping closer and holding up a file. “I heard you got the paperwork all sorted out.”_

_“Oh, that was easy. Cut and dry,” Quinn smiled, sitting up straighter and taking her glasses off._

_“Well, I was impressed nonetheless. You really have an eye for detail.”_

_“Thank you, sir.”_

_“Look,” he says, shutting the door to her office. “The cousin of a client got booked today. Some minor drug possession, assault or something. Good guy, bad situation. Misunderstanding I’m sure.”_

_Quinn’s brow furrowed. “That’s never good.”_

_“I was hoping you’d go down there. Sort something out.”_

_“Sort something out,” she repeated, tone begging clarification._

_“Be his advocate, Quinn. This is a big, very important client and I need someone good. Someone discrete.”_

_Quinn sat up straighter. “Of course, yeah. Just send me the information and I’ll get right on it.”_

_“Glad to hear it,” he said with a smile and a nod. He turned to leave, but stopped just inside the doorway. “Quinn?”_

_“Yes, sir?”_

_“You know a cop right?”_

_“My best friend, actually,” she answered. A beat of silence followed before Quinn asked, “Did you want to talk-”_

_Her boss shook his head, waving her off. “Just checking.”_

\--

Quinn acquiesces to Rachel’s demands and pushes the stack of files away from her, settling for resting, her wife perched on the bed as they sit in comfortable silence. The TV in the corner emits a low drone and Quinn glances over to see a news story covering the shooting, her own face and Rachel’s suddenly in the corner of the screen. Rachel watches it for a moment before scoffing quietly and reaching over to grab the remote. The television clicks off with an angry press of her wife’s thumb. 

It’s completely silent then and Quinn slides her palm over Rachel’s thigh, lets it wander under her dress warmly. “Hey,” she says quietly, sensing the quiet desperation in Rachel’s posture. “You okay?” 

There’s no answer except for the arch of Rachel’s eyebrow and Quinn actually laughs. “Stupid question.” 

Rachel hums, putting her hand over Quinn’s and squeezing. “I think reality is starting to sink in,” she whispers, eyes flicking to the window on the far wall, to the door, and then back to Quinn. 

“What reality exactly?” 

“This is bigger than Brittany and Santana,” Rachel says quietly, fingers twisting around Quinn’s, eyes continuing to dart around. “This is about you and me.” 

“It’s still about Brittany and Santana it’s just... _also_ about me,” Quinn counters with sigh. 

“You _and_ me,” Rachel corrects, securing her grip on Quinn’s hand. 

“Rachel, I-” 

“You know it’s a little concerning that I keep having to remind you that we’re married and I’m desperately in love with you.” 

It hits warmth inside Quinn’s chest quick and sharp and she takes a moment to breathe in. She disengages her hand from Rachel’s, strokes gentle fingers over her wife’s abdomen. “You’re so my favorite wife,” she says, smiling and Rachel laughs quietly at the old joke between them. 

Rachel preens insincerely, shrugging up a shoulder and flipping her hair. “Only makes sense. You _could_ be stuck in a sexless marriage with Mark Fairwood so....” 

Quinn laughs at the expression Rachel makes when she says her ex-boyfriend’s name and shakes her head. “Why would it be sexless?”

The indignation that immediately burns in Rachel’s expression only makes Quinn smile wider. “Do you want to be in a sexless marriage _now_?” 

Quinn smirks confidently. “Like that could ever happen.” 

Rachel hums through a smile and Quinn takes a deep breath, allowing herself a moment to take in the sight of her wife. “I love you very much.” 

“I love you too very much.” 

Silence drops yet again and Quinn shifts on the bed, looking around the room for a moment. It’s easier to forget all the ugliness around them with Rachel there. Easier to focus on things that make her happy and not get bogged down in all that threatens to bring down the walls around them. She knows part of it is the meds that are allowing her to so easily set aside the events from earlier and those still happening somewhere out in the city. 

Rachel breaks the silence with a quiet, “How are you feeling?” 

“I don’t want any more of those pain meds,” Quinn answers softly, fingers picking at the blanket over her legs. 

“Quinn,” Rachel admonishes softly, rolling her eyes in clear exasperation. 

“I don’t,” she insists, eyes darting up. “Even with the low dose my brain is all…” Words leaving her, Quinn resorts to shrugging, hoping Rachel understands. There’s too much going on right now, too much uncertainty. 

“I get it,” Rachel reassures her softly and Quinn is reminded suddenly that not long ago Rachel was the one with her head fuzzy and Quinn the one holding vigil at her bedside. 

Taking a deep breath, Quinn tries for a careful smile, tugging at Rachel’s fingers and sighing at the way Rachel’s hair falls forward across tired brown eyes. “You’re pretty,” Quinn whispers, desperate to focus on something else. 

Rachel’s laugh shoots out of her in a quick burst. “And talented.” 

“And talented,” Quinn repeats dutifully. 

\--

_The case came on a Wednesday. A nothing, ordinary, regular Wednesday and years later Quinn would wish she had just stayed home sick that day._

_Sometime between her second and third cup of coffee her assistant stepped into her office. “There’s a Mr. St. James here to see you, ma’am.”_

_Quinn looked up from her desk, sliding her glasses off and shooting her assistant a quizzical look before relenting with a questioning, “Let him back.”_

_The legal profession was a ridiculously small world and Quinn and Jesse St. James had found themselves in the same circles way more than she would have preferred over the years. He was a few years older than her and worked for her father right out of law school. She had never much cared for him. Something about him was just off putting. She had tried to explain it to Rachel once, but all she could manage was some form of_ I just don’t like him _._

_“Quinn!” Jesse greeted companionably, an overly wide smile on his face. She stood to shake his hand and managed to put on a smile of her own, eying the folder tucked under his arm._

_“Jesse,” she replied as he took a seat in front of her desk. “What an unexpected surprise.”_

_He hummed some sound of agreement before asking, “How’s Rachel? I haven’t seen her in ages.”_

_From anyone else it would be a polite question, but Quinn bristled at the reminder that of all the other lawyers for Rachel to have befriended...she befriended this one. Long before she met Quinn. “She’s fine,” is all Quinn offered._

_It was silent then and Quinn felt herself suddenly trapped in some twisted battle of wills, her eyes locked on Jesse, both of them with fake smiles across their faces for an uncomfortable moment._

_“Well,” Jesse finally said, adjusting his tie. “I’m here on business.”_

_“Business?” Quinn picked up a pen on her desk, hit it absently against the legal pad it had been resting on. “What sort of business could that be?”_

_“As you know, I do work for your father.”_

_“I’m aware,” Quinn replied dryly._

_“We’re working on a big case. We’d like to get your department involved.”_

_“My legal department?”_

_“You’ve been working with the criminal division, correct?”_

_Quinn’s brow furrowed. “You’re working on a criminal case for my father?”_

_Jesse’s lips pressed together and he slanted his head to the side with a shrug. “In a sense.”_

_Quinn barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Despite all the coffee she had consumed that day, she was tired. “Do you think maybe we could stop being cryptic? I have a busy day today.”_

_The folder that Jesse had been carrying flopped on her desk and Quinn turned her head to read the label. “Emma Casey,” she read slowly, trying to figure out if she should recognize the name._

_“An employee of your father’s,” Jesse explained and Quinn flipped the file open._

_“An accountant?” Quinn found a police report on the second page, eyes widening as she read the charges. “She’s been busy.”_

_“Your father heard about your work on the Smalley case,” Jesse said instead of clarifying. “You’re gaining a reputation in the field.”_

_Confused, Quinn looked back up at Jesse. “A reputation for what?”_

_“Discretion,” he answered and Quinn hated the way the word sounded. She had always found Jesse smarmy, but it was particularly true in this moment._

_Arching an eyebrow, Quinn looked back at the open file on her desk. Suddenly, a paragraph caught her eye. “Emma Casey is a Cain,” Quinn said, almost a whisper._

_“Oh?”Jesse’s innocent expression was so obviously fake that Quinn did roll her eyes this time._

_“What would my father have to do with a criminal case involving some Cain family member?”_

_“Quinn,” Jesse clucked, leaning forward in his chair. “We could use your help on the case. That’s why I’m here.”_

_Quinn picked up her glasses, tapped them against the file. “Why me? Because I’m Russell Fabray’s daughter? There are forty-five lawyers in our criminal division. A lot of them, most of them, more senior than me.”_

_“We like to keep things in the family,” Jesse replied and the implication was suddenly loud and clear. “It’s time you were brought in. Or so your father says.”_

_“I don’t work for the mob,” Quinn said with careful warning. “And neither does my father.”_

_“We’re lawyers, Quinn. The_ mob _is just a dirty word. Emma is a_ client _. And a friend.”_

_“I pick my_ clients _,” Quinn replied, heart starting to beat faster. “And, again, I don’t work for the mob.”_

_“Quinn, darling,” Jesse said with a smile that made Quinn want to punch him. “What do you think you’ve been doing the past year?”_

\--

Rachel’s flipping through a magazine having finally settled on a chair next to Quinn’s bed after one too many arguments with the nurse about how Rachel was preventing Quinn from getting medical care by camping out next to her.  The sound of her humming lulls comfortably around the room and Quinn smiles at the sound. 

It’s helpful to focus on something that isn’t the pain in her leg, or the fact that her best friend is out there being held hostage by a mafia enforcer, or that her other best friend is likely going to show up soon, crazed out of her mind and blaming Quinn for failing to protect Brittany. Rachel’s legs are crossed and Quinn spends long moments being mesmerized by the way her foot kicks out back and forth, red heel sliding off and on. 

“I can’t believe they used this picture,” Rachel murmurs, flipping a page. “Honestly, what do I pay Penelope for anyway?” 

As is usual in these situations, Quinn just hums agreement, choosing instead to imagine the vacation she is absolutely going to drag her wife on when this is all over. She thinks about bikinis and beaches and overly-boozy drinks and the way Rachel whispers her name when she’s supremely turned on. 

Rachel must feel her stare because a careful smile is starting to form on her lips as she sets her magazine aside and recrosses her legs as she turns slightly to better face Quinn. “What are you thinking about that’s giving you that gorgeous smile?” Rachel says in a soft tone that floods warmth into Quinn. 

Quinn shrugs a shoulder. “You.” 

The smile that breaks over Rachel’s face makes Quinn feel like everything is going to be okay, it beats warmth over her chest and makes her fingers itch to touch her wife, to grab her and take them both far away. 

“You have great legs,” she says, throat feeling thick. 

Rachel shrugs a shoulder, her hair falling slightly forward and Quinn’s struck for the millionth time just how attractive her wife is. “True.” 

A loud laugh bursts out of Quinn. “And your humility, as always, is so hot.” 

“I’m self aware,” Rachel corrects with chuckle and Quinn lets the warmth of her love for this woman spread out across the room, warming spots inside of her in desperate need of it. 

Holding out her hand, Quinn just smiles. “Come here,” she entreats with a whisper. 

Rachel looks like she’s going to refuse, but a warm palm slides over her own as Rachel stands, coming to hover at Quinn’s bedside. She must read Quinn’s intention clearly because she stops there, holding Quinn’s hand in both of hers and shooting her a look of warning. 

“Quinn, that nurse is after me. I’m not getting kicked out of this hospital because you can’t control yourself.” 

Quinn scoffs, tugs at her wife’s hands. “I don’t know what you’re trying to imply.” 

“I’m not _implying_ anything.”

The laugh that beats out of her just makes Rachel’s glare harden. “Quinn, quit it.”  

Acquiescing, Quinn just hums through a smile, putting her hands up in surrender. Rachel’s frown deepens. “Honestly. How is it that you’re more agreeable off the pain meds than on it?” 

Before Quinn can answer, Rachel’s head snaps up to the door, eyes flashing and Quinn turns in time to see Santana stride in, rain soaked hair, wide, tired eyes, and heavy shoulders. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Santana snaps towards Rachel and Quinn sees the already tense air crackle. 

“He shot me in the leg,” is the first thing Quinn thinks to say, interrupting whatever it is Rachel’s gearing up for. “The _leg_.” 

“Yeah, he did,” Santana says quietly, attention shifting to Quinn as she walks forward towards the bed. Quinn watches her fingers curl around the silver railing at her side and clenches her jaw. 

“Bastard,” she bites out. Her eyes train on Santana’s face, the way she rakes her hand across it, a subtle wince in the corners of her eyes and memory whips back into her. “He got Brittany,” she breathes out, eyes going wide and hot as Rachel inhales sharply, but quietly beside her. “Shit, S. I’m so sorry. He got Brittany.” 

Santana’s head shakes, lips pursed. “We got him,” she replies and Quinn finds herself leaning closer to her best friend. “He had Brittany in that warehouse over on 82nd and we got him.” 

A deep breath of relief leaves her and Quinn sinks back into her pillow, allows herself to feel a moment of victory. “Oh thank God.” Rachel exhales audibly beside her, but Quinn focuses on the way Santana’s hands wrap around the railing of her bed unsteadily. Her head shoots off the pillow. “Is he dead?” 

“I don’t know,” Santana answers and Quinn catches the way Santana’s shoulders stiffen, her feet shuffle. “I shot him a few times, but he could survive. Finn and Matt are taking him in.” 

Her nurse walks into the room with a smile, heading straight towards the computer next to her bed. It almost makes her laugh to watch Rachel glare at the woman, but she feels Santana lean over the railing and moves her gaze in her best friend’s direction. 

“What’s wrong with her?” Santana stage whispers. 

“Long story,” Quinn answers with a grin, laughing a little when Santana rolls her eyes. It feels completely normal for a moment before Santana swallows visibly, her arms crossing. 

“We need to talk.” 

Quinn arches an eyebrow and ignores the way her stomach turns over at the look on Santana’s face. “Okay,” she lets out slowly. “What about?” 

“Your father.” 

She can practically feel Rachel tense from across the room, feels her own body mimic the motion and knows the look on her face can’t be any comfort to Santana. “What about my father?” she manages to ask after a moment even though she knows the answer. It’s habit. 

“You tell me.” Santana’s tone isn’t that of the friend Quinn has known nearly her entire life. It has the weight of a gold badge behind it and Quinn can’t help the way she reacts to it, suddenly unsure of where loyalties will fall when the castle comes crumbling down. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Santana.” 

“Cut the Shit, Q. Your father is connected to this. In a big way.” 

Rachel moves closer to them, but Santana has her hand up, stopping her wife before she can even begin to speak. “I’m not saying you have a hand in this. I’m saying you know something. Something you’re not telling me and you need to tell me _now_.” 

There’s a pause and Quinn shakes her head against the bitter taste of adrenaline on her tongue. 

“Q,” her friend croaks out and Quinn feels the weight of the last few years drain out of her, her eyes burning with the urge to cry. Santana’s face is open and earnest in a way Quinn can’t remember seeing since they were kids. “He went after Britt. He hit Rachel. You have to...you have to tell me, please.” 

“Okay,” she says firmly, blowing out a heavy breath and squeezing Rachel’s hand. “You’re right. There’s something I haven’t told you.” 

\--

_It wasn’t that she didn’t want to tell Rachel. It was just that...she didn’t want to tell anyone. Telling someone made it all too real and as long as she kept it inside, it was a fantasy, some crazy speculation that couldn’t possibly be reality._

_They were at some charity event. A foundation for fostering exotic animals or something that Quinn knew she should remember, but just couldn’t find it in herself to care. Rachel dragged them to this kind of stuff at least twice a month and their money went to too many places for Quinn to honestly be expected to keep track._

_The best thing about the events though? Open bar. Champagne always made Rachel particularly handsy and Quinn liked how every single the time the night ended with Rachel pulling them home early and getting a little too fresh in the limo ride home._

_She was just about to whisper a suggestive_ want to get out of here _into her wife’s ear when a face in the crowd caught her eye._

_Her stare must have been obvious because Rachel set her champagne flute back down on the hightop they were standing at and looked up at Quinn quizzically. “Baby?”_

_“Hmm?” Quinn shook herself out of her thoughts and looked down at her wife who was now scanning the room trying to figure out what Quinn was staring at._

_“What were you staring at?”_

_“Nothing,” Quinn said with a shake of her head. She swallowed thickly and took a long sip of her drink as she wiped her other hand, feeling suddenly clammy, down the side of her dress._

_“Oh my gosh is that Jesse?”_

_A sharp choke on her drink drew Rachel’s gaze back to Quinn, brow furrowing deeper. “Is that who you saw? I haven’t seen him in ages. We should say hi.”_

_Quinn pursed her lips together and hummed noncommittally, trying to shrug it off. Seeing the other man reminded her of their conversation just a week prior and to the mounting suspicions in her brain. It was the last thing she wanted to deal with right now. Not after three gin and tonics and the way her wife looked in her dress. “You want to get out of here instead?”_

_“Why are you being weird?”_

_“How is that weird?” Quinn asked on a laugh, her palm sliding over the small of Rachel’s back. She pulled her wife in closer, their hips connecting with intention._

_“Quinn,” Rachel chastised, but her own hands were sliding up Quinn’s bare arms and a throaty laugh dropped out of her throat in reply._

_“Come on,” Quinn entreated, her face so close to Rachel’s now that their noses bumped. Distantly, she was aware of a flash coming from their right and knew she’d be seeing a picture of herself giving her wife sex eyes on the internet by morning. “You know you’re ready to go home with me.”_

_The low sound that came out between Rachel’s pursed lips thrummed throughout Quinn’s body and before she knew it she was being dragged towards the exit, Rachel throwing charming goodbyes at anyone they passed._

_\--_

_The air in the back of the limo was thick as Quinn pressed hot kisses up Rachel’s neck. Rachel leaned into the touch, her head tilting with the trail of Quinn’s lips and Quinn smiled into tan skin ready to whisper all the things she planned to do to her wife when they got home._

_Rachel it seemed had her mind on other things because she put a hand over Quinn’s where it was perched suggestively high on her thigh and broke the heavy silence with a sigh._

_“I feel bad.” Quinn pulled back to arch an eyebrow at her wife, nearly bumping noses with Rachel when she turned to look at her. “I probably should have said hello to Jesse.”_

_Quinn scoffed, scooting back into her seat. “Is now really the time you want to talk about him?”_

_Rachel’s gaze narrowed, eyes scanning over Quinn’s face like she’s looking for something. Quinn had always felt way too vulnerable in front of Rachel like this, like there was nothing, no feeling, she could ever really hide from her wife. “Are you jealous of Jesse? Is that why you were being weird?”_

_It was actually so far from the immediate truth that Quinn couldn’t help but burst out laughing, the loud sound making Rachel startle. “We’re married,” Quinn said after she composed herself._

_“And?” Rachel flipped her hair over a shoulder. “He’s good looking. I’m good looking. He has a serviceable voice and a good job and he’s seen me topless and-”_

_“All of New York has seen you topless,” Quinn all but growled, remembering the partial nude scene from one of Rachel’s productions a few years ago. Possessive heat sent tension into her shoulders._

_“You know what I meant,” Rachel replied, rolling her eyes. “It would make sense if you were jealous.”_

_“As if I’d be jealous of that sniveling no good-”  
  
“Quinn Fabray!” Rachel interrupted, pushing at Quinn’s shoulder. “He’s an old friend of mine and he helped me out a lot when you were being an insane law student.” _

_“I was not insane.”_

_The sound of Rachel’s laughter put a scowl on Quinn’s face, but her wife just slapped at her shoulder and laughed harder._

_“Honestly, Quinn. I’m not saying Jesse is a particularly...upstanding person, but he hasn’t really done anything nasty to me-”_

_“He works for my father,” Quinn reminded her with a look._

_“And while that certainly doesn’t do anything for his judgment, he’s an old friend that I haven’t seen in a long time and I hate letting relationships just dwindle like that. It’s tactically unsound-”_

_“Tactically unsound?!” Quinn articulated with an amused smile._

_“You never know when it’s good to know a lawyer. Even one like him.”_

_“Rachel, you’re married to a lawyer.”_

_Rachel shot Quinn a coy look. “For now.”_

_Quinn laughed again before kissing the smirk off his wife’s face._

_For a second, Rachel kissed her back and Quinn was more than ready to return to the heat of moments before, the careful and practiced foreplay that always stirred in the back of limos. But Rachel pulled away, her hands on Quinn’s cheeks to keep them separated and the concern on her wife’s face pushed against all of Quinn’s defenses just like always._

_“Tell me what’s bothering you,” Rachel said in a soft whisper, breath ghosting over Quinn’s lips. “You’ve been weird for the past few days.”_

_“I haven’t been weird,” Quinn denied, but it was useless. She had been, at the very least, preoccupied the last week ever since meeting with Jesse and she knew Rachel had noticed. She took a deep breath, pulled away from Rachel’s hands and thought about how to start explaining all the turmoil in her head._

_“He came by my office,” she confessed quietly, sinking down into the leather seat and eyeing the partition between them and the driver._

_“He what?”_

_“Last week,” Quinn said, looking out the window for a moment. The city moved by in slow crawl and suddenly Quinn wished to be out among the people on the street, anonymous and unburdened._

_“What for?”_

_Rachel scooted closer in the seat, her arm coming to rest on the seat back over Quinn’s shoulders, fingers playing with an errant blonde hair._

_Quinn blew out a low breath, debated for a long moment whether she wanted to bring all of her dark suspicions out into the light of day, whether she wanted to open pandora’s box. But the car was warm and the feeling of her wife beside her was lulling her into a sense of security she never felt anywhere else. The words fell out in a gin-induced tumble before she could stop them._

_“I think there’s something shady going on with my father,” she whispered, looking over at Rachel. Her wife’s face remained impassive._

_“What does this have to do with Jesse?”_

_After a deep breath, Quinn recounted her meeting with Jesse, the details of the case he threw on her desk and the suspicions that had been mounting the past few days as Quinn poured over old case files and firm financials._

_“So you think…” Rachel looked appropriately baffled when she was done, rendered as speechless as Rachel Berry ever was._

_The car pulled up in front of their building before Rachel could finish the sentence and Quinn opened the door, turning around to help her wife step out onto the curb._

_It wasn’t until they were back up in their bedroom, Rachel undressing and Quinn wiping the makeup off her face that either of them spoke._

_“Do you have some sort of proof?” Rachel asked quietly, leaned up against the door to their bathroom as she pulled off her dangling earrings. “I mean linking your father with the Cain family or even Jesse or your firm or…”_

_Quinn threw her makeup wipe in the small trash bin and turned to look at her wife with a shrug, pulling out the clip holding her hair up. “Not really.”_

_“Quinn,” Rachel sighed, moving to set her earrings on the counter. “You know I don’t exactly have the highest opinion of your father.”_

_Quinn laughed, but the sound was hollow. “Not the highest, no.”_

_Arching an eyebrow, Rachel set her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry, but he’s been nothing but rude and condescending to you and our relationship and I don’t value that sort of negativity in my life.”_

_“I know,” Quinn said softly, stepping forward and putting her hands against Rachel’s cheeks before giving her a quick kiss. “And I love you for that.”_

_Rachel hums contentedly. “I don’t have the highest opinion of him, but even I’m a little skeptical about what you just told me. Especially because it’s just...I mean without proof…”_

_“It’s just speculation,” Quinn finished for her. “I know.”_

_“I’m not calling you paranoid, but-”_

_“I’m being paranoid,” Quinn said wryly. They separated and Quinn moved back into the bedroom, stepping to pull pillows off their bed._

_“If you really believe what you’re telling me,” Rachel said from the other side of the bed. “Then you need proof.”_

_Quinn knew Rachel was right. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was whether or not she wanted proof._

_\--_

It takes a while for Quinn to get the words out, but she does it. Santana’s smart and Quinn can see all the dots connecting as they talk, the anger building in Santana’s expression and posture as Quinn details her father’s long relationship with the Cain family. 

“You should have told me years ago.” 

“What was I supposed to say?” She flings her hands in the air, head pressing farther into her pillow with a bitter laugh. “Hey, S. By the way, my dad wants me to be his very own mob lawyer and he wants to know if you want a cut too?” 

Santana’s face is serious when she locks eyes with Quinn, her fingers curled tensely around the rail of the bed. “Yes.” 

Quinn feels herself growing indignant in response to Santana’s righteousness. As if Santana has any idea what’s been going on, what kind of hell Quinn’s been living. “And then what? You go and arrest him?” 

“He’s a fucking criminal!” Santana shouts. 

“He’s my father!” 

Santana’s face is tight, her eyes glossy. “I’m your best friend. You should have fucking told me.” 

Tension bleeds out of her chest and Quinn fights the urge to just give up. To ask for more pain meds, close her eyes and hope that when she wakes up everything will be back to normal again. “I dealt with it,” she says softly, looking away towards the door. “I thought I dealt with it.” 

“Well clearly,” Santana intones darkly. “You didn’t.” 

\--

_“Why are you up so late?”_

_Quinn looked up from her desk, sliding her glasses off to observe her wife, leaned up against the door to her office. Rachel wrapped her arms around herself and blinked sleepy eyes at Quinn, waiting for an answer._

_The clock read 3:05 where it ticked from the wall to her right and Quinn swallowed against sudden anxiety. She had found the proof she needed. As much as she could. But did she really want to tell Rachel? Did she want to do something about it?_

_She settled for, “Did you just get home?”_

_Rachel stepped forward, looking more awake suddenly. “No,” she said softly. “I took a shower and was surprised to find you not in bed.”_

_The unasked question was obvious in Rachel’s tone and Quinn sighed, rubbing at her forehead and eying the scattering of papers on her desk. “How was the show tonight?”_

_“Fine,” Rachel said calmly, coming to settle next to Quinn, leaning against the desk by the chair. Steady fingers pulled Quinn’s own away from her head. “Sadie forgot the lyrics halfway through her solo.”_

_Quinn laughed thinking of Rachel’s co-star. “No way.”_

_“Mmm, how she could forget lyrics to a song she’s sung over twenty times I have no idea, but I’m trying to learn I can’t expect everyone to reach my level of professionalism and talent.”_

_“Big of you,” Quinn replied, trying to sound serious but failing. Rachel glared and Quinn laughed. “Did you talk to her after?”_

_“I told her exactly what I thought of it and I can assure you it will not be happening again if I have something to say about it.”_

_“Rachel,” Quinn chastised, but she smiled at the image of her headstrong wife berating a castmate._

_Rachel shrugged, unconcerned and eyed the papers on Quinn’s desk. “So?”_

_“So?” Quinn sat back in her chair, rolling her head around her neck to get the ache out._

_“Why are you up so late? Usually you’re dead to the world when I get home.” Rachel smiled softly. “Not that I’m complaining. We hardly see each other these days when both of us are conscious.”_

_On a heavy exhale, Quinn grabbed a file off her desk, stared at it for a moment before handing it to Rachel quietly. Her wife looked confused as she grabbed it and she frowned as she read through its contents._

_“This is…” Rachel trailed off, whipping her head up to look at Quinn, mouth moving silently. It had been over a month since she first told Rachel of her suspicions and now she had what Rachel had practically told her to get._

_“Proof,” Quinn finished for her, nodding and smiling. The expression is tight and uncomfortable._

_“What are you going to do?”_

_Shrugging, Quinn leaned back in her chair, not sure how to answer a question she’d been agonizing over for the past few hours. “Talk to him, I guess. I don’t know yet. I don’t know if I’m going to do anything honestly.”_

_Rachel shot concerned eyes her way. “Maybe you should tell Santana.”_

_“Why would I tell Santana?”_

_“She’s a cop and she’s your best friend for starters.”_

_“This is personal,” Quinn argued. “She doesn’t need to get involved. She’d probably do something irrational anyway.”_

_“Quinn, keeping this to yourself is incredibly irresponsible and you’ll just get wrapped up in some twisted web of secrets and lies and I am telling you right now that-”_

_“Rachel,” Quinn interrupted, not feeling up to a lecture from her wife. “It’s late. Can we just table this for another day?”_

_The look on Rachel’s face told Quinn they absolutely_ could not _table it for another day, so she snatched the file from Rachel’s hands and dropped it back down on her desk, standing and swallowing Rachel’s surprised gasp in a long, heavy kiss. Her hands moved to grip under Rachel’s thighs, lifting her just enough until she’s sitting on the desk, files getting pushed back dangerously close to the edge._

_“You can’t bury your problems under sex,” Rachel murmured against Quinn’s lips as she scooted farther back on the desk, Quinn now standing between her legs._

_“Maybe I just missed my wife.” It was a half truth and Quinn saw how it swiftly moved through Rachel’s natural desire to keep Quinn talking, the smile spreading over her lips full of love and want. “Maybe I just love her very much and it’s been way too long since I’ve shown her just how much.”_

_“We’ll talk about it later,” Rachel said, voice thick with sudden arousal. It_ had _been too long between Rachel’s show starting and Quinn’s long hours at work and Quinn felt herself overcome with sudden heat, a pull between her thighs as Rachel bit at her lower lip, hands tangling in blonde hair._

_“Later,” Quinn agreed as her fingers slipped under Rachel’s oversized sweatshirt to find purchase at the edge of her underwear._

_\--_

The story of the past few years starts coming out in stuttered sentences as Santana pushes and pushes her to let it all out. Quinn practically orders Rachel out of the room after her wife starts pushing back against Santana, defense of Quinn instinctual, even against a friend. 

She gets through most of it with as much ease as can be expected, but it’s the big secret that drops like a bomb between them and Quinn feels like she’s watching from outside her body as everything comes to a head. 

“No,” Santana bites out, eyes cold and accusatory as Quinn explains just how involved their families once were. “You’re lying.” 

“Santana,” Quinn entreats, sitting up and suddenly wishing Rachel were back in the room to buffer the overwhelming flood of emotion and tension. “I’m not lying.” 

Santana is practically shouting now, her face angrier than Quinn has ever seen it. “Why the fuck are you even telling me this? What the fuck, Quinn. This has nothing to do with fucking Pike and your dad and _fuck you_. My parents were a lot of things, but they weren’t criminals.” 

Desire for Santana to stay and hear the rest wars with the desire to just be done with the conversation and Santana makes the decision for her, walking towards the door with a sharp, “Just shut the fuck up. I don’t want to hear anymore.” 

Rachel is returning at the same time and fumbles a tray of coffee as Santana nearly runs her over. She watches as her wife bites back a desire to snap at Santana for it. Concern radiates from Rachel’s face and Quinn loves her for it. Loves this woman that so completely and unquestionably loves her friends. 

“Santana!” Rachel calls out as Santana stomps out of the room. 

“Leave it, Rach,” Quinn tells her, blinking against the heat in her eyes. 

“I’m texting Brittany,” Rachel says as she walks further into the room, setting the tray of coffee on the table. “Santana has that look on her face.” 

“What look?” Quinn focuses on the coffee trying to figure out if one of the cups is for her. It helps force back the tears threatening to fall. 

“That _I’m about to throw a Drama Desk Award across the room_ look.” 

“That was _one_ time,” Quinn laughs, watching as her wife types away on her phone. “And your award was fine. She threw it at a couch.” 

Rachel ignores her while she texts, presumably letting Brittany know Santana is on a warpath and Quinn takes deep steadying breaths, smells the coffee by her side and tries to forget about this huge wound she just split open. 

“So how did it go?” Rachel asks after throwing her phone back into her purse. “I’m presuming since Santana barreled out of here like that, not well, but I’ve also learned in my years of knowing her that Santana overreacts dramatically to everything like that so I don’t want to assume.” 

Quinn arches an eyebrow at that. “ _Santana_ overreacts dramatically?” 

“I’m paid to be dramatic, Quinn. It’s entirely different.” Rachel picks up a coffee cup out of the tray and moves to sit down in a chair. 

“That better be-” 

Rachel silences her with a raised hand, taking a long sip of her coffee before speaking. “Stop avoiding the subject. Of course it’s decaf. Did you tell everything to Santana?” 

Quinn nods, heat spiking quickly back behind her eyes. “Yeah,” she breathes out. 

“And?” 

“And it went about as expected,” Quinn says, looking up at the ceiling and trying to keep herself steady. “This is why I fucking told you years ago that telling her was a ridiculous idea.” 

Rachel’s voice is low. “Don’t take that out on me, Quinn. Just because it was hard, doesn’t mean it wasn’t the right thing to do.” 

\--

_They almost never fought in public. Both of them were far too aware of their public image to allow anything to go too far. A particularly intense picture of the two of them arguing at an airport coffee shop taught them that lesson. Quinn would still cringe when she thought about the way the photo captured Rachel practically stomping her foot while Quinn looked pointedly away, angry eyes hidden behind aviators. So they kept their fighting at home._

_Which was probably why Santana and Brittany both looked at them like they’d lost their damn minds the minute they started arguing heatedly at the bar, seconds after Rachel blamed Quinn for their lateness._

_“You have completely lost your grip on reality.”_

_“Oh like you’re one to talk. This isn’t a fucking theater. You don’t have to put on a fucking showface just to leave the house.”_

_“Dude,” Santana breathed out, eyes wide as she wrapped a hand around Quinn’s bicep, tugging her softly away from Rachel. “Q, chill.”_

_“You guys okay?” Brittany asked warily, playing with the straw in her drink. Her eyes slanted to Santana before bouncing between Quinn and Rachel._

_Rachel’s face was flushed with anger and Quinn was sure her face didn’t look much better. She wasn’t even sure what exactly they were fighting about, between her father, Rachel’s terribly timed desire for a stupid baby, and the host of general fights that had sprung up in the midst of those two topics._

_“Oh, we’re just fine, Brittany,” Rachel spat out. Quinn pulled her arm out of Santana’s hold, holding her finger up at Joe so he can pour her a damn scotch as she sat down on a stool. “Quinn’s just unable to recognize when it’s time to do something.”_

_This didn’t clear up what they were fighting about, but the edge with which Rachel said it and the content of what she said convinced Quinn to shut down the fight immediately._

_“Rachel, can we discuss whatever this is later? At home, maybe?” Quinn asked, not especially kindly. Rachel glared at her. Quinn stared back, unaffected._

_“Sure. Pencil me in, Quinn,” Rachel said, standing up again from her bar seat and grabbing her coat off the stool. She did not apologize when it hit Quinn in the head. “Just let me know when my appointment is.”_

_“Whoa, Berry,” Santana said, trying to grab ahold of Rachel’s coat as she pulled it on. “You just got here. Settle down a little. Have a fucking drink.” Quinn barely heard the whispered_ do not leave me and Britts alone with your pissy wife _as she pointedly looked down at her phone, spinning it around under her hand._

_Rachel shrugged Santana off of her, just as Joe delivered a scotch to the bartop in front of Quinn. She took a long swig of it. Rachel looked at her for a moment longer, but after Quinn didn’t look back, stormed off, pushing the door open with enough force that the chimes attached to it went crazy. Brittany looked between Santana and Quinn with some concern, and Santana looked at Quinn with confusion._

_“Are you going to go after your midget wife? It’s twelve fucking degrees out and eleven o’clock,” Santana said, like Quinn needed a fucking reminder. Her shoulders tensed as if her body was warring with her brain, every instinct in her telling her to follow Rachel back out into the night. But she was practiced at this, and the fight burned through her senses, keeping her in place on the barstool as she took another long sip of her drink._

_“She can handle herself,” Quinn said, barely glancing up from her glass. Santana stared at her some more, then finally looked at Brittany and said something about how she’ll be back to pick her up, and ran out after Rachel._

_Brittany didn’t say anything for a long moment, just watched as Quinn finished her drink all too quickly and tried to blink the tears out of her eyes. “Quinn,” her best friend whispered, long fingers wrapping around her wrist warmly._

_Quinn had to fight not to throw the hand off. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, too harshly. Distantly, Quinn was glad Santana had left. She held up her finger at Joe again in silent request and was grateful when all Brittany did was lean heavily into her side in quiet comfort._

\--

Rachel steps outside to take a phone call and minutes later the sound of her wife berating someone pulls Quinn from her thoughts. She turns her gaze from the window towards the door, eyebrows rising at how quickly Rachel’s side of the argument is escalating. 

“That’s atrocious, Damian. I’m the star of the show!” 

Quinn waits a few seconds and almost laughs at Rachel’s, “Don’t you dare hang up we are _not_ finished-” 

“He hung up,” Quinn whispers to herself with a quiet chuckle. 

“He hung up!” Rachel repeats the words outside in an indignant squeak. “That _bastard_.” 

“Rachel!” Quinn calls out, surprised at her wife’s sudden language. 

The sheepish expression Rachel has on her face when she walks back in warms Quinn’s insides and distracts her from the darkness that’s been swirling around her head for the past few hours. 

“The show?” 

Rachel presses her lips together, throwing her cell phone into her purse where it sits on a chair next to Quinn’s bed. “You heard that?” 

“Something wrong with it?” 

“No of course not,” Rachel sighs. “They’re just plugging along like nothing’s happened.” 

“Well from their perspective-” 

“Can you believe he actually said _the show must go on_ to me?! To me!” Rachel’s eyes are alight with anger, her hair tangled from what Quinn is sure hands running through it. “I hope Amy trips and breaks an arm during the front half I swear to-” 

“Rachel, you can’t expect them to halt everything just because we’re going through some stuff. I mean this is why you have an under-”

“Quinn Fabray I have told you time and time again how I feel about that word,” Rachel warns, finger pointed in Quinn’s direction. 

“You can always go back to work. All we’re doing here is just sitting around and waiting,” Quinn suggests though she knows it’s futile. There’s no way Rachel would be able to perform right now and frankly, the the thought of her wife out of her sight churns anxiety in her gut. 

Rachel gives her a look at conveys _exactly_ how bad her wife thinks that suggestion is before suddenly grabbing for her phone again. “I’m going to call Penelope. Maybe I can sue for like-” 

“You are not going to sue anybody,” Quinn interrupts with a laugh. It’s easily the hundredth time Rachel’s suggested suing someone that’s ticked her off. Quinn is constantly reminding her that not all wrongs have legal remedies. 

“I thought there’d be benefits to marrying a lawyer, but you just prove yourself constantly unhelpful in these situations.” 

“Hilarious,” Quinn says dryly. 

“You know this whole criminal conspiracy thing is really interfering with my work schedule,” Rachel starts, pacing a little and Quinn can see the rant about to tumble out of her wife. It feels blissfully normal for a second. “This show is new enough that people are just not going to understand how I have evolved the role and considering the praise we got after the previews, it’s really bad form to go on without-” 

“Maybe we should move. Get out of this city,” Quinn suggests on an exhausted exhale, interrupting Rachel mid sentence. 

She startles at the sharp gasp that Rachel lets out in reply. 

“I will _never_ move,” Rachel states vehemently and Quinn raises both eyebrows at the declaration. 

“I’m just saying-” 

“Wipe that option from your brain, Quinn Fabray. We are _not_ moving. What made you even consider such a thing?” 

Quinn laughs, shaking her head and shrugging. “I’m just tired,” she confesses. 

Rachel’s about to respond, but Puck enters the room and Quinn sits up at the sight of Santana’s partner. “Puck,” she says as Rachel lets out a similarly relieved, “Noah!” 

“Ladies,” Puck greets with a nod of his head. He looks uncomfortable as he shuffles in the room, rolling his shoulders around in his leather jacket. Rachel rushes towards him and wraps him in a loose hug. He’s careful of her ribs, but hugs her back and Quinn smiles at the sight. 

When they break apart, Quinn speaks, “How are you? I mean, Santana said-” 

“I’m fine,” he shrugs, glancing between them and striding closer to Quinn. He lifts up the sleeve of his jacket slightly and a white wrap around his forearm is revealed. “Just a scratch. All patched up.” 

“That’s good,” Rachel answers for them, her hand curling on his bicep companionably. 

Puck smiles at her before turning serious eyes towards Quinn. “Listen, Santana let me in on what you told her and…” 

Quinn looks towards her wife, bites at her lip. “And she sent you in here for the rest of it.” 

Relief floods Puck’s face when Quinn finishes his thought. “It’s pretty fucked up, Fabray.” 

“Noah,” Rachel says sternly, once again coming to Quinn’s defense and stepping boldly between them.

“Chill, shorty,” Puck says putting his hands up defensively. “It _is_. But I’m just here to hear the story. Santana’s dealing with some stuff.” 

“Is she-” 

“She’s with Britt.” 

Quinn nods, grateful that Santana isn’t alone. “So…” 

Puck steps forward, arms crossing over his chest. “So tell me.” 

\--

_“Is this going to become a habit?” Santana asked, twisting the cap off a beer and taking a swig._

_“Is what?” Quinn sat with her elbows propped up on the counter of Santana and Brittany’s kitchen, half-empty beer in front of her. She had shown up at Santana and Brittany’s unannounced after a particularly brutal fight with Rachel and was grateful when Santana let her inside without asking too many questions._

_“This,” Santana clarifies with a gesture between them. “You fighting with the hobbit again?”_

_Brittany walked into the kitchen before Quinn could answer and smiled at both of them. “Hey, friends,” she said happily, bouncing over to kiss Quinn on the cheek before crashing into her girlfriend’s side and taking a sip of her beer. “Whatcha doin here, Q? Where’s Rach?”_

_“They’re fighting,” Santana whispered conspiratorially and Quinn glared up at her friend._

_“We’re not,” Quinn denied, shaking her head at Brittany. “I just came by for a drink.”_

_“They’re fighting,” Santana repeated more definitively. “Again. As if anyone is surprised. Berry is intolerable on a good day-”_

_“Santana, shut the fuck up before I punch you.”_

_Surprise widened in Brittany’s eyes though Santana just smirked in response like Quinn had just confirmed her suspicions and Quinn ran a hand over her face, blowing out a low breath. “You okay, Quinn?” Brittany’s voice was soft, comforting and it grated against Quinn’s overworked nerves. The fight with Rachel still thrumming through her system._

_“I’m fine.”_

_“Are you and Rach okay? I mean you guys aren’t like...you know…”_

_Quinn looked up at that, stared at Brittany incredulously as she began to pick up on the unanswered question. “Aren’t what?”_

_Brittany shrugged, glanced at Santana for a moment. “Getting divorced or something?”_

_“What the hell?!” Quinn erupted, standing up abruptly._

_Santana immediately stepped forward, pulling Brittany behind her with a warning expression on her face. “It was just a question, Q. You guys have been weird for months.”_

_“Well it’s a fucking ridiculous question and-”_

_Santana pointed a finger in her direction cutting her off mid sentence as Brittany watched them in careful silence. “One bitch to another,” Santana said lowly. “You’ve been completely off your game lately and as much as I hate to admit your midget does anything fucking positive in this world she clearly keeps you in line so if you’re this fucked up this often...it’s obviously because you’re not handling your shit at home.”_

_“I handle it just fine, thank you,” Quinn clipped out._

_“Quinn,” Brittany started, softer as she wrapped an arm around Santana’s waist. “Go fix things with Rach.”_

_The desire to do so was so undeniably strong that Quinn could hardly resist it, but that wasn’t the problem. She didn’t know how to tell her friends that she was completely lost. That she didn’t know how to fix it. That things were breaking apart that she couldn’t keep together. That she was taking it out on Rachel for no reason and hated the way she kept hurting her wife._

_Britany must have read all the despair on her face because she stepped around Santana to wrap her arms around Quinn’s neck and in a quiet affectionate whisper gave Quinn one order. “Go home.”_

_\--_

_The place was silent when she got home and the first level completely dark. Quinn shrugged out of her jacket and stood for a moment in the foyer, debating her options. It was late, but she knew Rachel wouldn’t be asleep. Not after the fight they just had. Rachel had odd rules about not_ getting in their marital bed without resolving their issues _._

_She should have expected it, but her heartbeat caught at the sight of Rachel sitting in Quinn’s office chair, brown hair tumbling forward as she flipped casually through a file on Quinn’s desk._

_Feeling uncharacteristically unsure of herself, Quinn knocked on the doorjam lightly, offering a hesitant smile when Rachel looked up._

_“Hey,” Rachel said, voice barely projecting through the open room._

_“Hey,” Quinn parroted, stepping closer._

_Rachel fiddled with a pen on the desk, biting lightly at her lower lip. “Where were you?”_

_The question sounded casual, but Quinn could read all the accusation laced behind it. She was so tired, tired of the way everything dark in her life was starting to consume everything good she had with Rachel. “Santana and Brittany’s,” she answered. “I just stopped for a drink.”_

_Rachel looked at her again, eyebrow arched. “You’ve been drinking?”_

_“No,” Quinn answered, shaking her head and coming around, nearer to Rachel. She perched against the desk next to the chair and looked down at her wife. “I had half a beer and then Brittany sent me home. Seemed to think I had things to take care of.”_

_“How is it that I married a lawyer and yet everyone else in her life is so much smarter than her?”_

_“Just lucky I guess,” Quinn joked softly, shrugging and trying to get Rachel to smile._

_Rachel did smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes and Quinn hated the feeling. Her fist clenched with the desire to find something tangible and punch it. “Rach,” she started, jaw tight._

_“I’d really like to stop fighting like this,” Rachel said suddenly, leaning back in Quinn’s desk chair. “It’s unpleasant and...it’s not what I want out of my marriage.”_

_The words tightened painfully in Quinn’s chest and she reached out to grab Rachel’s hand without thinking of it. “I’m sorry,” she said though she knew it wasn’t enough. She couldn’t find the right words to fix all their problems, didn’t know how to make them go away and sudden worthlessness almost overwhelmed her._

_“Quinn,” Rachel sighed, squeezing the long fingers tangling with her own. Quinn hated the watery look Rachel had in her eyes, hated that she was responsible for it._

_“I don’t even remember what we were fighting about,” Quinn tried, hoping for levity, for a silent agreement to just put it behind them and move forward._

_“I do,” Rachel stated firmly, lips pressed tightly together._

_Silence spread between them for a moment before Quinn felt the need to break it, anxiety curling uncomfortably in her gut. “Brittany thinks we’re getting divorced.” She attempted to make the comment casually, as if in jest, but she knew immediately she had failed, could hear the crack in her own voice and the way Rachel’s gaze whipped quickly to her’s._

_Rachel stood then, stepping between Quinn’s legs to place both hands on her cheeks. The feeling was warm and safe and Quinn closed her eyes involuntarily at the touch. “Quinn, darling, sweetheart, baby, love of my life, I love you so much you know that, right?”_

_“Yeah,” Quinn choked out, feeling herself start to cry._

_“I love you more than anything. More than my career, more than performing, more than those vegan pastries we found over on fifth street.” Quinn let out a watery laugh. “More than_ anything _,” Rachel repeated, staring into Quinn’s eyes._

_“Me too,” was all Quinn could say without breaking the dam holding her tears back._

_“I know,” Rachel whispered. She took a deep breath and continued. “I think you’re making the wrong choice. About your father, about keeping it from Santana, about a lot of things. But, end of the day? I love you. And if you want to make bad choices, I’ll stand right by you while you do. And I’ll stand by you when it all comes tumbling down on your head because it most definitely will. Our marriage is strong enough to withstand all your idiotic decisions.”_

_Quinn rolled her eyes at the last bit, especially with the hint of a smirk she could see playing on her wife’s lips. “Rachel-”_

_“I’m not done.”_

_Quinn wisely shut her mouth, putting her hands up slightly in surrender and allowed Rachel to continue._

_“We cannot keep fighting like this. That’s something between you and me that you can’t just ignore like everything else. You can’t just walk away and go hide with Santana and Brittany when stuff gets tough.”_

_“I wasn’t hiding,” Quinn grumbled with a quiet sniffle. She tried to look away, but Rachel’s hands held her head firmly._

_“You know I’m in this for the long haul, right?” Rachel’s eyes were a deep, serious brown and Quinn lost herself in them for a moment, the agony of Brittany’s earlier question that night beating right out of her._

_“I could go down for this,” Quinn confessed, hands coming up to grip at Rachel’s hips. “My name is all over some of those cases. I stood in the room with a lot of those people. I could go down for this.” Quinn bit her tongue at adding,_ if I go down, you probably will too.

_But it didn’t matter because Rachel knew exactly what she meant and she shrugged like Quinn had just told her the weather or Sunday’s football scores. “Where you go, I go.”_

_The tears did come after that and Quinn smiled at her wife, feeling the warmth of their connection wrap around them. Quinn didn’t know what she had done in her past life that made her deserve the kind of love Rachel offered. “I don’t deserve you.”_

_At that, Rachel finally smiled coyly and full of easy flirtation. “I know,” her wife said on a wink._

_“You totally changed my life you know,” Quinn said softly, losing the control on the tears threatening to fall. Rachel swiped a thumb across her cheekbone. “I’d be such a mess without you.”_

_“You’re a mess with me,” Rachel joked, but Quinn stayed serious, needing her wife to understand._

_“I love you more than anything too, Rach,” she stated with quiet conviction, fingers gripping at hipbones. “I want to give you everything you want, anything you want and I’d do anything to protect you and I just-”_

_“Shhhh,” Rachel murmured as Quinn’s words started to tumble in a teary ramble. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”_

_Rachel pressed their lips together after that, briefly but with heat and Quinn let herself enjoy it for a quiet moment. When they broke apart, they just stared at each other, Rachel’s hands still on Quinn’s cheeks._

_“I still think you’re making the wrong choice,” Rachel said softly. “Just so we’re clear.”_

_“You made that very clear, baby,” Quinn laughed before going serious. “But this is the mob. These are powerful people. Killers. I can’t take this lightly. If this goes down…”_

_“Are you saying you’re in danger?” The severity of the situation finally seemed to hit Rachel, a slow look of fear spreading out over face. “Are_ we _in danger?”_

_An instinctual need to comfort spurred Quinn into action and she shook her head, kissing the frown off Rachel’s lips. “No, baby,” she said, full of conviction she didn’t totally feel. “And we won’t be. I promise you.”_

_The tension seemed to ease at that and Rachel pressed a warm kiss to Quinn’s forehead before pulling her forward into a hug. Quinn let her head rest against Rachel’s chest, breathed in the scent of her wife for a quiet moment. “I love you desperately,” Quinn mumbled into the cotton of Rachel’s shirt._

_“Me too,” Rachel replied, arms wrapping tighter around Quinn’s back. “We’re going to be just fine.”_

_In the stillness of her office with Rachel murmuring affection against her temple, strong arms cradling her, Quinn let herself believe it._


End file.
